He shivered in the glare of the mountain,
He screamed upon the sea-swords,
His bowels rushed out upon the lances of the Wind.
I shall look through the eye of Mountain,
I shall set in my scabbard the sabre of Sea,
And the spear of Wind shall be my hand's delight.
I shall not descend from the Hill.
Never go down to the Valley;
For I see, on a snow-crowned peak,
The glory of the Lord,
Erect as Orion,
Belted as to his blade.
But the roots of the mountains mingle with mist.
And raving skeletons run thereon.
I shall not go hence,
For here is my Priest,
Who hath broken me in the waters of Disdain.
Here is my Jester,
Who hath mended me on the wheels of Mirth.
Here is my Champion,
Who hath confounded mine ancient Enemy
Ardgay--the slayer of Giants.



OVER THE DEAD

Who in the splendour of a simple thought,
Whether for England or her enemies,
Went in the night, and in the morning died;