I know no fears, but the mist of years that has gathered round my track
For a moment clears, and my youth’s compeers again to my side come back;
And the tall ships reel o’er their iron keel, as we sweep down on the foe,
Like a giant’s form amid the storm, where the mighty tempests blow.
Again I gaze on the leaping blaze o’er a conquered city rise,
As in those days, when the Skald’s wild lays, sang the fame of our high emprise;
When our ships went forth from the stormy North with the Scandinavian bands
Who backward bore to the Baltic’s shore the spoil of the Western lands.
But my race is run, my errand done; so bear me to my ship.
Place my battle-brand in this dying hand, and the wine-cup to my lip;