And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.
“Heard you not the battle-horn?—
Reaper! leave thy golden corn:
Leave it for the birds of heaven—
Swords must flash and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed—
Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red.”
And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.