Till listening warriors, from their chargers leap,
Assume the glittering helm, and nodding crest,
Unsheathe the ready sword And lay the lance in rest
But not of war, nor of the battle blast,
Sung now the kingly harper. No his strain
Was mournful, as a dream [folio 7] of days long past.
At times it swelled, but quickly died again;
And oh! the sadness of that wild refrain!
Suited full well with the lone, solemn hour,
Too sad for joy, too exquisite for pain,