Recital

Round his head Idiego hurl'd His hatchet keen and good; Whizzing, fierce the weapon whirl'd, And quiver'd in the wood.

Reldor then with sullen stride, His knife was in his hand, Advanc'd, and thus aloud he cried,— And cut the twisted band.

Reldor takes thee for his son, Colwall in battle stain: In many a fight his fame he won, Nor shrunk from death or pain.—

Silent now the warrior train Bear the blood-stain'd chief,— No more they weep for Colwall slain,— No more is known of grief.—