| |
| HEAR how the noble Siward died! | |
| The leech hath told the woful bride | |
| ’T is vain: his passing hour is nigh, | |
| And death must quench her warrior’s eye. | |
| |
| “Bring me,” he said, “the steel I wore, | 5 |
| When Dupath spring was dark with gore; | |
| The spear I raised for Githa’s glove, | |
| Those trophies of my wars and love.” | |
| |
| Upright he sate within the bed, | |
| The helm on his unyielding head; | 10 |
| Sternly he leaned upon his spear, | |
| He knew his passing hour was near. | |
| |
| “Githa! thine hand!” How wild that cry, | |
| How fiercely glared his flashing eye! | |
| “Sound! herald!” was his shout of pride: | 15 |
| Hear how the noble Siward died. | |
| |
| A roof must shade that storied stream, | |
| Her dying lord’s remembered theme; | |
| A daily vow that lady said, | |
| Where glory wreathed the hero dead. | 20 |
| |
| Gaze, maiden, gaze on Dupath Well. | |
| Time yet hath spared that solemn cell, | |
| In memory of old love and pride: | |
| Hear how the noble Siward died. | |
| |
