Yet will I brave the death, the guilt,
To grasp in pride its blood-stained hilt.
Now give! Believe, the subtle brand
Shall grace a northern maiden’s hand.
Still silent? Then by spear and shield
I bid thee to my wishes yield!
By bucklers strewn upon the plain—
By thousand foes in battle slain—
By Saxon bones in fearful trust
That crumble o’er thy conquering dust—