Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/705

 And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame and free-livers; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight Warbling the day and night— Up at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers!

EBENEZER ELLIOTT

1781-1849

587. Battle Song

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more; the cock crows—hark! To arms! away! They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem. What collar'd hound of lawless sway, To famine dear— What pensioned slave of Attila, Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar, Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar? They do his will.