 | Poems |  |
SONG
1
The Saxon has roused him; false Pagan, beware!His bow it is bent, and his sword it is bare;
His sword it is bare—and bare it shall be—
Till sheathed in thy bosom—till England is free!
16
2
With his king for his leader—revenge for his cry,He has reared the broad banner of freedom on high.
With the rage of a lion, when bursting his chain,
Will he rush to the slaughter of Pagan and Dane.
3
Cruel Heathen! thy sword shall avail thee no more,For its keen edge is clotted with Christian gore.
In luxury slumber thy countless array,
As the overgorged serpent, when glutted with prey.
4
Oh! where is the chief that should lead thee? and whereThe standard should cheer thee from flight and despair?
He is slain—it is lost—and thy numbers are vain;
The Saxon has roused him—woe, woe to the Dane!
17
5
Woe, woe to the Dane; but more cursed be the slave,Who shall see the broad banner of liberty wave,
Who shall hear the loud blast, when it summons alike
The prince and the peasant,—yet tremble to strike.
6
False merciless heathens! now think on your guilt—On the vows ye have broken—the blood ye have spilt;
Oh! think on your guilt, and repent ere ye die;
For the Saxon has roused him, and vengeance is nigh!
| Poems | |