Classic Poem

XVI.

" I may not read or when or how,
But Earls and Kings, be sure
I see a blade o'er every brow,
Where pride now sits secure.
Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain!
When chief and monarch fall,
Their names in song shall breathe again,
And thrill the feastful hall.

XVII.

" Like God's own voice, in after years
Resounds the warrior's fame,
Whose deed his hopeless country cheers,
Who is its noblest name.
Drain down, O Chiefs! the gladdening bowl!
The present hour is yours;
Let death to-morrow take the soul,
If joy to-day endures. "

XVIII.

Grim sat the chiefs: one heaved a groan,
And one grew pale with dread,
His iron mace was grasped by one,
By one his wine was shed.
And Guthrum cried, " Nay, bard, no more
We hear thy boding lay;
Make drunk the song with spoil and gore!
Light up the joyous fray! "