The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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THE SAXON BANQUET. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
120
THE SAXON BANQUET.
Grasp the sword, the goblet fill,
Pledge the honey'd bev'rage round:
Fear not, chiefs, your blood to spill,
Hydromel will heal the wound.
Pledge the honey'd bev'rage round:
Fear not, chiefs, your blood to spill,
Hydromel will heal the wound.
Hark! the war-fiend's brazen wings,
Rustle in the frighted air;
Hark! the grim-cy'd sisters sing,
And weave the bloody web of care.
Rustle in the frighted air;
Hark! the grim-cy'd sisters sing,
And weave the bloody web of care.
Loud echoing through the fretted hall,
Sighs, and moans, and groans combine;
Next moment something will befall,
This moment, festal mirth is thine.
Sighs, and moans, and groans combine;
Next moment something will befall,
This moment, festal mirth is thine.
'Tis come—prepare the steel rib'd vest;
Gird the side, defend the breast;
Hissing arrows cut the sky;
Targets meet, and falchions rattle,
Oden! this is thy own battle,
Conquest sparkles in thine eye.
Gird the side, defend the breast;
Hissing arrows cut the sky;
Targets meet, and falchions rattle,
Oden! this is thy own battle,
Conquest sparkles in thine eye.
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Swift sweep the scythed cars, whole legions fall,
Death spreads his shadowy pall;
'Tis ours to slaughter, theirs to die;
'Tis ours to slaughter, shrouded brethren cry.
Death spreads his shadowy pall;
'Tis ours to slaughter, theirs to die;
'Tis ours to slaughter, shrouded brethren cry.
Green-stoled minstrels! earth's best
treasure,
Exalt, prolong, the lofty measure,
And o'er each corse, with holy fingers, steal
Heroic poesy's pure-purpled veil;
Green-stoled minstrels! earth's best treasure,
To death give peace, to life give pleasure;
Time will come, and Hela, grisly guest!
Then too, our lonely ghosts shall claim the song of rest.
Exalt, prolong, the lofty measure,
And o'er each corse, with holy fingers, steal
Heroic poesy's pure-purpled veil;
Green-stoled minstrels! earth's best treasure,
To death give peace, to life give pleasure;
Time will come, and Hela, grisly guest!
Then too, our lonely ghosts shall claim the song of rest.
Thus, Rodorick, at the plenteous board
Divinely sung, a warrior-bard;
Grim valour own'd the tuneful lord,
And the replenish'd scull, still smil'd his bright reward.
Divinely sung, a warrior-bard;
Grim valour own'd the tuneful lord,
And the replenish'd scull, still smil'd his bright reward.
| The Harp of Erin | |