So that in their snares, the weaponsOne would think, must needs be captured,Soon, in truth, the spears are prison'd;Yet they, in the gentle war-dance,One by one escape their fettersIn the row of loops so tender,That make haste to seize a free oneSoon as they release a captive.
And dances' soft measure,With rapture commingledAnd sweet choral song.
O'er a field of boundless span
When he his steed had tied.And as he groped his doubtful way,The ground began to rock and sway,--
A couple thither had fared;
Looks thoughtfully on;She roams by the streamlet,
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