English

XXII.

Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye
Rolled fiercely round the throng;
It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh,
Whose shock aroused the song,
A golden cup King Guthrum gave
To him who strongly played;
And said, " I won it from the slave
Who once o'er England swayed. "

XXIII.

King Guthrum cried, " 'Twas Alfred's own;
Thy song befits the brave:
The King who cannot guard his throne
Nor wine nor song shall have. "
The minstrel took the goblet bright,
And said, " I drink the wine

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;

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;

XIII.

" With iron links they bound him fast;
With snakes they filled the hole,
That made his flesh their long repast,
And bit into his soul.
The brood with many a poisonous fang
The warrior's heart beset;
While still he cursed his foes, and sang
His fierce but hopeless threat.

XIV.

" Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes?
Why champ your teeth in pain?
Still lives the song though Regnar dies!
Fill high your cups again.
Ye too, perchance, O Norsemen lords!

X.

" High praise from all whose gift is song
To him in slaughter tried,
Whose pulses beat in battle strong,
As if to meet his bride.
High praise from every mouth of man
To all who boldly strive,
Who fall where first the fight began,
And ne'er go back alive.

XI.

" But chief his fame be quick as fire,
Be wide as is the sea,
Who dares in blood and pangs expire,
To keep his country free.
To such, great Earls, and mighty King!
Shall praise in heaven belong;

VII.

In trod the bard with keen cold look,
And glanced along the board,
That with the shout and war-cry shook,
Of many a Danish lord.
But thirty brows, inflamed and stern,
Soon bent on him their gaze,
While calm he gazed, as if to learn
Who chief deserved his praise.

VIII.

Loud Guthrum spake, — " Nay, gaze not thus,
Thou Harper weak and poor!
By Thor! who bandy looks with us
Must worse than looks endure.
Sing high the praise of Denmark's host,
High praise each dauntless Earl;

IV.

From Humber-land to Severn-land,
And on to Tamar stream,
Where Thames makes green the towery strand,
Where Medway's waters gleam, —
With hands of steel and mouths of flame
They raged the kingdom through;
And where the Norseman sickle came,
No crop but hunger grew.

V.

They loaded many an English horse
With wealth of cities fair;
They dragged from many a father's corse
The daughter by her hair.
And English slaves, and gems and gold,
Were gathered round the feast;

I.

Dark fell the night, the watch was set,
The host was idly spread,
The Danes around their watchfires met,
Caroused, and fiercely fed.
They feasted all on English food,
And quaffed the English ale;
Their hearts leapt up with burning blood
At each old Norseman tale.

II.

The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves,
And Guthrum, king of all,
Devoured the flesh of England's beeves,
And laughed at England's fall.
Each warrior proud, each Danish earl,
In mail and wolf-skin clad,

SIR KNIGHT, YOUR VALEDICTORY

The earth may reel from trembling pole to pole,
The fiery billows in their fury roll,
But, fixed on C HRIST , the Templar Host will stand,
And brave the terrors of the burning land: —
Hail and Salute!

Winter may bind the earth in icy chain,
Spring may unloose the laughing streams again;
Summer may heat, and autumn heap the land,
While fixed on C HRIST the Templar Host will stand: —
Hail and Salute!

The enemies of law may rouse their ire,

DROP SWORD

No more the trenchant blade to wield,
No more the helmet and the shield,
The Templar's strife is o'er;
The sepulcher where Christ hath lain,
That holiest place is ours again,
To be bereft no more.
In peace we lay our weapons by,
And chant the hymns of victory.