Herva

Warrior, now dost thou reclaim The lustre of thy former fame; Lo, the Sword, a seeming brand, Blazes in thy daughter’s hand! Nor perishes that hand beneath Vapourous flames, that round it wreathe, Gleam along the midnight air, Illume the forest wide,—and glare On the scath’d Oak!—Sepulchral wood, Thee I quit for fields of blood! Nor would I, on its fateful range, This Sword, with all its meteors, change For the Norweyan sceptre.—Lo, Death, and conquest, wait me now!—