The Harper slowly bent his head,
  And touched aloud the string;
  Then raised his face, and boldly said,
  “Hear thou my lay, O King! 
  High praise from every mouth of man
  To all who boldly strive,
  Who fall where first the fight began,
  And ne’er go back alive.

  “Fill high your cups, and swell the shout,
  At famous Regnar’s name! 
  Who sank his host in bloody rout,
  When he to Humber came. 
  His men were chased, his sons were slain,
  And he was left alone. 
  They bound him in an iron chain
  Upon a dungeon stone.

  “With iron links they bound him fast;
  With snakes they filled the hole,
  That made his flesh their long repast,
  And bit into his soul.

  “Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes? 
  Why champ your teeth in pain? 
  Still lives the song though Regnar dies! 
  Fill high your cups again! 
  Ye too, perchance, O Norseman lords! 
  Who fought and swayed so long,
  Shall soon but live in minstrel words,
  And owe your names to song.

  “This land has graves by thousands more
  Than that where Regnar lies. 
  When conquests fade, and rule is o’er,
  The sod must close your eyes. 
  How soon, who knows?  Not chief, nor bard;
  And yet to me ’tis given,
  To see your foreheads deeply scarred,
  And guess the doom of Heaven.

  “I may not read or when or how,
  But, Earls and Kings, be sure
  I see a blade o’er every brow,
  Where pride now sits secure. 
  Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain! 
  When chief and monarch fall,
  Their names in song shall breathe again,
  And thrill the feastful hall.”

  Grim sat the chiefs; one heaved a groan,
  And one grew pale with dread,
  His iron mace was grasped by one,
  By one his wine was shed. 
  And Guthrum cried, “Nay, bard, no more
  We hear thy boding lay;
  Make drunk the song with spoil and gore! 
  Light up the joyous fray!”
  “Quick throbs my brain,”—­so burst the song,—­
  To hear the strife once more. 
  The mace, the axe, they rest too long;
  Earth cries, My thirst is sore. 
  More blithely twang the strings of bows
  Than strings of harps in glee;
  Red wounds are lovelier than the rose
  Or rosy lips to me.

  “O, fairer than a field of flowers,
  When flowers in England grew,
  Would be the battle’s marshalled powers,
  The plain of carnage new. 
  With all its death before my soul
  The vision rises fair;
  Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl! 
  I would that I were there!”

  Loud rang the harp, the minstrel’s eye
  Rolled fiercely round the throng;
  It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh,
  Whose shock aroused the song. 
  A golden cup King Guthrum gave
  To him who strongly played;
  And said, “I won it from the slave
  Who once o’er England swayed.”