Herva

Obey, obey, or sleep no more! Now my sacred right restore! The Sword, that joys when foes assail, Sword, that scorns the ribbed mail, Scorns the car, in swift career, Scorns the helmet, scorns the spear; Scorns the nerv’d experienc’d arm; ARGANTYR, yield it to my charm! ’Tis not well the victor’s pride, With thee in silent tombs to hide; Thy child, thy only child, demands,— Reach it with thy wither’d hands!