52
THE SWORD.
Shapely burden of my hand!
Foul disgrace is never nigh,
When I clasp my long bright brand,
Girt by Heaven upon my thigh:
Proud protector in the fight,
Ranging fierce, and wild and bright.
One there is my heart detests,
Songs and songsters he infests
With a cunning enmity;
Fat and taciturn, and foul,
Oxlike in his heavy scowl,
And his rank obesity:
Now with silent frowns he tries,
Now with threats, the bard to scare.
Wrathful weapon, noble prize!
While my hand thy blade can rear,
All his terrors I defy!
Cold at midnight may I lie,
If on charger I retreat
From yon wretch, or on my feet!
Shall we not our vengeance claim
On that man of hate and shame—
Eithig—who so foxlike knows
How to skulk before his foes,
