Nor he alone, avoids the foe. The soul of the valiant grows when foes increase in the field. Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I behold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like a stream of light.
Broad oaks bend around with their moss.
The thick birch is waving near. Half hid, in her shadowy grove, Ros-cranna raises the song. Her white hands move on the harp. I beheld her blues rolling eyes. Three days we feasted at Moi-lena.