 | Poems |  |
10
Calm on the bosom of the main,
When the hurrying winds arise,
Dash their white foam in anger to the skies,
Those warriors who at first had felt
Their souls beneath the music melt,
When those last wild notes were sung,
Up from the banquet all furious sprung;
'Twas the song of the warrior-god they adored.
Up they sprung from the festive board;
Some their savage skill displayed,
And fronted their comrades, blade to blade;
Branches of pine, some heaped on the ground,
Fired them with torches, and danced around:
'Twas dreadful to hear as they whirled them about,
The piercing yell and the frantic shout.
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