the song, so burst "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. "Oh! fairer than a field of flowers, When flowers in England grew, Would be the battle's marshalled powers, The plain of carnage new. Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl! I would that I were there!" 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. King Guthrum cried, ""Twas Alfred's own; Thy song befits the brave: Nor wine nor song shall have." The Harper turned and left the shed, Nor bent to Guthrum's crown; The Danes ne'er saw that Harper more, For soon as morning rose, JOHN STERLING. |