Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/513



Ask where great glory is won? Enquire of the desolate land; Of the city that hath no life, Of the bay that hath no white sail, The land that is trenched with mad feet, Which turned up the soil in despair; The city is silent and fireless, And each threshold is crowded with dry bones; The bay glitters sheenly in sunlight, No oar shivers now its clear mirror; The mast of the bark is not there, Nor the shout of the mariner bold. But the sea-maidens know of strange men, Beclasped in strong plaits of iron: They know of the pale-faced and silent, Who sleep underneath the waves, And never shall waken again To stride o'er the beautiful dales, The green and the flower-studded land. The Ritters ride home!

We have come from the strife of shields; From the bristling of mighty spears; From the smith-shop, where brynies were anvils, And the hammers were long swords and axes.