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Midst the rock-altars of the warrior-dead* , And ancient battle-rhymes Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed, And lofty songs of Britain's elder time.

But ere the giant-fane Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hush'd were the bards, and, in the face of Heaven, O'er that old burial-plain Flash'd the keen Saxon dagger!—Blood was streaming, Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in vain.

For they return'd no more! They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part; And, on the rushy floor, And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; But not for them—they slept—their feast was o'er!