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POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
He has bowed to the voice stentorian,
Sick with thought of the grave—
He has called for his battered morion
And his scarred glaive.
On the boy's helm a glove
Of the Duke's daughter—
In his eyes splendor of love
And slaughter.
Hideous the Hun advances
Like a sea-tide on sand;
Unyielding, the haughty lances
Make dauntless stand.
And ever amid the clangor,
Butchering Hun and Hun,
With sorrowful face rides Sangar
And his son . . .
Broken is the wild invader
(Sullied, the whole world's fountains);
They have penned the murderous raider
With his back to the mountains.
Yet tho' what had been mead
Is now a bloody lake,
Still drink swords where men bleed,
Nor slake.
[72]
