Classic Poem

XIX.

" Quick throbs my brain " — so burst the song —
" To hear the strife once more.
The mace, the axe, they rest too long;
Earth cries my thirst is sore.
More blithely twang the strings of bows
Than strings of harps in glee;
Red wounds are lovelier than the rose,
Or rosy lips to me.

XX.

" Oh! fairer than a field of flowers,
When flowers in England grew,
Would be the battle's marshalled powers,
The plain of carnage new.
With all its deaths before my soul
The vision rises fair;
Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl!
I would that I were there!

XXI.

" 'Tis sweet to live in honored might,
With true and fearless hand;
'Tis sweet to fall in freedom's fight,
Nor shrink before the brand.
But sweeter far, when girt by foes,
Unmoved to meet their frown,
And count with cheerful thought the woes
That soon shall dash them down. "