THE LEGACY OF THE SWORD.
(For the Mirror.)
It is thine—it shall win thee a wreath for thy brow
When thy spirit seems more energetic than now;—
It is thine in the war-cloud of gloom and of fire,
The pride of thy kindred—the sword of thy sire!
It is thine—let the bright rose around it entwine,—
Let it glance in the sunbeam which smiles on the shrine,
And sheathe it triumphant when cravens retire,
The pride of thy household—the sword of thy sire!
It is thine—but the warrior who bore it is laid
Where the rose throws its balm, and the cypress its shade,
And churls and marauders have ceased to retire
From the star of the battle—the sword of thy sire!
It is thine—thou shall wave it with banner and plume
When the trumpet is heard in the war-cloud of gloom:
It is thine to defend thee when rebels conspire,
The choice of thy childhood—the sword of thy sire!
Deal.