Classic Poem

BARDS .

V. i.

Set is the Sun of northern climes,
The doughty Hengest is no more; —
Gone is the King, with Horsa, to that shore
Where sleep the brave in battle slain;
And where, in everlasting halls,
They taste the well-earnt meed
Of all their toils, of all their wars,
Of all their wounds, and all their honest scars,
And hear their praises told in deathless rhimes.
Oh Read, thrice hapless stream, thy banks among
Our Chieftains fell: — Go, wanderer, go
And hide thy blushing waves below!

V. ii:

I'll hang my harp up on the sky-scatch'd oak,
(Yon moody Monarch of the blasted heath!)
And each rude gale which sighs that way,
Midst Rocks and howling Dens, hoarse Caves and wilds of Death
Shall some new note of sadder woe provoke,
And to the Heroes Three its mournful tribute pay!

V. iii.

But ha! They come — The Triple Heroes come,
No food are they for fire or tomb,
No longer numbered with the dead!
Fear and the horrour-hatching Night are fled!
They live — They come! Victorious sweep the strings,
Ye frantic Bards, to rapture swell the notes!
Loud let the song of Triumph shout around!
Tell it the rocks and bellowing caves afar;
And, while upon the volleying winds it floats,
Sing the Three Eagles that on iron wings
Bore the big Thunder thro' the bleeding War!