Herva

Sleep, ARGANTYR,—Chief of might, Thro’ the long, the dreary night; Nor let strife, and bitter scorn, ’Mid HERVA’S offspring, yet unborn, Disturb thee in the tomb!—and mark, The Spear, that broke thy slumber dark, Round the blasted oak I wave, That ill protects a warrior’s grave! Soon shall its scath’d trunk be seen Cloth’d in shielding bark, and green As before the vengeful time, When, by force of baleful Rhyme, It shrunk amid the forest’s groan, Smote by the red thunder-stone. Thro’ the renovated boughs, Guardians of thy deep repose, Shall the hail no longer pour, The livid dog-star look no more! Spirits of the elder dead, Spell-awak’d from slumber dread, Not to your spears, in martial pride, Resting by each hero’s side, Not to your gore-spotted mail, Steely shroud of warrior pale, Shall, thro’ thousand winters, drain Driving snow, or drenching rain; Nor, while countless summers beam On arid plain, or shrinking stream, Thro’ the widening chink be known Reptile vile of sultry noon, To wind the slimy track abhorr’d!— Fate is mine, since mine the Sword!