“Thou, O queen of splendor, must
Pale and crumble back to dust;
Through slow eons diest thou,—
Doomsday craves my vitals now.
“I am scion of a line
Old, imperial, divine;
Earth produced my ancestor
Ere great Odin was, or Thor.
“From the hursts of holy oak
Fateful gods of Asgard spoke;
In the consecrated shade
Bard and Druid sang and prayed.
“Fostered in an oaken womb
Slept Trifingus, sword of doom;
Therewith woaded Caratak
Drave the steel-sarked Roman back.
“Where, profaned by legioned foes,
In the shuddering forest rose
Mona’s altars flaming rud,
Britain drowned her woe in blood.
“Then the dread decree of Norn
Sounded in the groves forlorn;
Vikings swooping from the North
Harried every scaur and forth.
“Forests fell with crash and roar,
Masted galiots spurned the shore,
Dragon-breasted,—swum the meer,
Daring danger, scouting fear.
“Hengist’s brood and Horsa’s kin,
Seed of Garmund, sons of Finn,
Dane and Saxon sail and sweep
Battling o’er the wrathful deep;
“Hearts of oak! their valor gave
Right of might to rule the wave,
Gave to Nelson’s ocean war
Copenhagen, Trafalgar!
“Bray of trumpet! roll of drum!
When shall Balder’s kingdom come?
Bitter sap shall when grow sweet
In the acorn at my feet?