Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/94

 Are trooping grimly by; The spirit heralds rush before Harald's destroying brand, They hover o'er yon fated shore And death-devoted band. Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast! And fire each beacon height, Our galleys anchor in the sound, Our banner heaves in sight! And through the surge and arrowy shower That rains on this broad shield, Harald uplifts the sign of power Which rules the battle-field!" So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of slaughter While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing.

On rolled the Northmen's war, above The Raven Standard flew, Nor tide nor tempest ever strove With vengeance half so true. 'Tis Harald—'tis the Sire-bereaved— Who goads the dread career, And high amid the flashing storm