Knight, squire, and page, on rush-strewn floors, were stretched in sound repose,
While spear and falchions, dim with dust, hung round in idle rows;
And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dreaming lay,
Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the fray.
But in that hour,—when Nature's self serenely seemed to sleep,—
In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the keep,
A ghost-like multitude defiled in silence from the wood
That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for many a rood,—
The banner of that spectral host is soiled with murderous stains—
They are the "Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted Danes!