 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
XI.
It fell: but as it fell, aboveThrough lightning-lighted skies on drove
A thousand heavenly standards, dyed
In martyrdom's ensanguined tide;
And every tower, and town, and fane
That blazed of old round Erin's shore,
Down crashed, it seemed, in heaven again;
So dire that thunder's roar!
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For Brian's prayer had power that day;
Seaward they rushed, the race abhorred;
The sword of prayer had quelled their sword.
So fled they to the ship-thronged coast;
But, random-borne through Tolga's glade,
A remnant from that routed host
Rushed by where Brian prayed;
And, swinging forth his brand, down leap'd
Black Brodar, he that foremost rode,
And from the kingly shoulders swept
The old head, praising God;
And cried aloud, ‘Let all men tell
That Brodar, he that leagues with Hell,
That Brodar of the magic mail
Slew Brian of the Gael.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |