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XXIII
THE KING’S ELECTION
To the Ting! the Ting! Budkafle goes
From home to home:
King Ring is dead. A king to choose
The Northmen come.
From idle wall is ta’en the brand
Of purple steel:
Each warrior, with practised hand,
Its edge doth feel.
The little sons behold with joy
Its glitter bright:
Two raise it up, for either boy
Too heavy weight.
The daughter scrubs the helmet clean,
Bright must it glare;
Then blushes red, for she has seen
Her image there.
He taketh, last of all, his shield,—
A sun in blood.
Hail to thee, freeborn warrior, mailed,
Thou yeoman good!
From thy free breast alone can grow
A nation’s pride;
In war, thy country’s rampart thou;
In peace, its guide.
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