Thus he cried, and proudly left me, and wherever now I rove,
I reproach myself for thinking I could vanquish mighty Love.
THE WARRIOR
From the Arabic.
Thou lov’st to look on myrtles green,
And the narcissus bright of hue;
I love the blaze of sabres keen,
I love the dagger’s flash to view.
Thou, thou may’st drink the rosy wine
From golden goblets sculptured o’er;
From foemen’s skulls the joy be mine
To drink my foemen’s reeking gore.
* * * * *
London
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.
Footnotes:
[10] Here the old ballad—I speak of the original Manx—concludes. The two following stanzas are comparatively modern.