In The Lost Battle, Borne Down By

Love, To Her Ear, Was But A Name, Combin'd With Vanity And Shame; Her Hopes, Her Fears, Her Joys, Were All Bounded Within The Cloister Wall.

In Peace, Love Tunes The Shepherd's Reed; In War, He Mounts The Warrior's Steed; In Halls, In Gay Attire Is Seen; In Hamlets, Dances On The Green. Love Rules The Court, The Camp, The Grove, And Men Below, And Saints Above; For Love Is Heaven, And Heaven Is Love.

Unless A Tree Has Borne Blossoms In Spring, You Will Vainly Look For Fruit On It In Autumn.

When Thinking About Companions Gone, We Feel Ourselves Doubly Alone.

Vengeance To God Alone Belongs; But, When I Think Of All My Wrongs My Blood Is Liquid Flame!