SABLA, thou saw’st th’ exulting foe
  In fancied triumphs crowned;
Thou heard’st their frantic females throw
  These galling taunts around:

Make now your choice—the terms we give,
  Desponding victims, hear:
These fetters on your hands receive,
  Or in your hearts the spear."

"And is the conflict o’er?" we cried;
  "And lie we at your feet?
And dare you vauntingly decide
  The fortune we must meet?

"A brighter day we soon shall see,
  Though now the prospect lowers;
And conquest, peace, and liberty
  Shall gild our future hours."

The foe advanced;—in firm array
  We rushed o’er Sabla's sands;
And the red sabre marked our way
  Amidst their yielding bands.

Then, as they writhed in Death's cold grasp,
  We cried, "Our choice is made:
These hands the sabres’ hilt shall clasp,
  Your hearts shall have the blade!"