Classic Poem

FIRST BARD .

II. i

Where yon tall Beoms becrown the mountain-clough
And fling their big boughs to the denns below,
On the loose ridge of shivering rocks reclin'd,
Her streaming tresses sport for every wind,
With Eyes of Sorrow fair Rowena lies
And for her dear-worth Sire heaves her heart-cutting sighs.
She asks her Country's Gods bestow
The Victory once themselves did know;

II. ii.

O'er him Tuisco wave thy guardian wand!
And Thou, Great Woden, his war-hable hand
Nerve with the Wolf's own might;
And, while he courts the bleeding fight,
Give him, like Thee, to deal destruction's blow,
Give him, like Thee, to quell the churly foe!
And, star-encircled Thor, at whose command
Unweather foul and roisting storms arise,
Hurl forth thy fouldering bolts and rift the shuddering skies!
Or Hengist conquers — or Rowena dies.