Page:Records of Woman.pdf/180

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I have dreamt thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness; afar From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Whose image unto thee is as a dream Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, Sick for thy native air. L. E. L.

champions had come from their fields of war, Over the crests of the billows far, They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores, Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars.

They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's board, By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour’d, The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high, And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.