As it unsheath’d, with awe he sees
The sleepers all arise.
Struck with amaze, he put it back.—
The monarch, pierc’d with woe,
E’er he return’d to death-like sleep,
Thus spoke in accents slow:
“A curse, O Dixon, light on thee!
Why wast thou ever born?
Why did thou not the sword draw out,
Or wind the bugle horn?