The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
198
II.
MY SWORD
God says that I may send thee, sweet, my sword.—
Its use is nearly over,—let the hilt
Be held once in thy white hand if thou wilt;—
That touch will be its owner's high reward.
Black-stained it is with blood of foemen spilt,
Dinted and jagged, and snapped anigh the point,
And all the tassel is of rusted gilt;
The scabbard gapes with wear at every joint.
Its use is nearly over,—let the hilt
Be held once in thy white hand if thou wilt;—
That touch will be its owner's high reward.
Black-stained it is with blood of foemen spilt,
Dinted and jagged, and snapped anigh the point,
And all the tassel is of rusted gilt;
The scabbard gapes with wear at every joint.
I shall not need it more. The highest gift
That I can give, it is; the tenderest too.
No more in battle shall it glitter swift,
And, after, streak its sheath with crimson dew.
The sword is dead and victor,—as am I:
Take thou the weary steel, and put it by.
That I can give, it is; the tenderest too.
No more in battle shall it glitter swift,
And, after, streak its sheath with crimson dew.
The sword is dead and victor,—as am I:
Take thou the weary steel, and put it by.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |