“That death or victory is ours. Strike, strike

"The sleeping lyre, let warlike music fire

"Our stubborn nerves, and animate our blood

« With energetic warmth. Strike, minstrel, strike, "And bid your harp with generous ardour swell; « Hibernia and her cause demand your song.”

Thus spoke the youthful chief, while o'er the strings, Attuned to harmony, the raptured bard

Enthusiastic bends, and loud the rocks

And distant hills reverberate the lay:

Rise, sons of green Erin, arise,

To arms for your freedom betake;

Hark! hark! 'tis a voice from the skies

That bids you from slumber awake.

Your country, your rights, and your laws,
Invaders are heard to defy;

Rise, rise, 'tis a glorious cause

That calls you to conquer or die.

Loud, loud let the trumpet resound;

Swell, swell the rude clangour of war;

Let tumult re-echo around,

And slaughter ascend his red car.

Our hills, and our vallies so green,

Our virgins, the pride of the earth;

What native surveys such a scene,
But exults in the land of his birth!

Oh! then, whilst the current runs warm, That pours in our heart from each vein, May we never feel terror to arm

Whilst a foeman is seen on our plain.

Rise! sons of green Erin, arise,

To arms for your freedom betake;

Hark! hark! 'tis a voice from the skies

Soon as the minstrel ends, the warrior bands

Upraise the standard of the cross, and shout,

"Saint Patrick and our rights." Keen for the strife On rush the patriots 'gainst the coming Danes, ' With crush resistless; while the foe, in turn,

Present their rugged front, firm to the charge,
And enemy to flight. The contest now

A sanguinary aspect wears, and death

And ruin seem to ride the wrathful storm.

Thick fly the missile darts, the glitt❜ring spear

Grows dark with blood, and reeks each shield with gore. But see where Oscar leads the conquering van,

And, like a whirlwind, swift before him drives

The scattering Danes; in vain can Horsa urgè

Renewal of the charge, the fainting foe,

Opprest with numbers, and severely galled,
On every side, by deeply plunging spears
And swords, forego the fight; while Oscar cries,
"They yield! they yield! illustrious heroes, see
The vanquished spoilers yield, and fortune's smile
This day rewards our arms with victory."

Thus said the gallant thunderbolt of war,

When, turning round, with visage sternly grim,
The savage Horsa, leader of the Danes,

Still lingering in the bloody field of strife,

And maddened with despair, exclaims, "Think not,

Mistaken youth, the honours of the day

As yet thine own; to make thy conquest sure,

Thy victory complete, thou must to me

Thy dastard arm oppose, and learn, too late,

That never yet was Horsa foiled in camp

Or council, or obliged, with cringing look,

To deprecate a conqueror's rage, much less
Submit to-day to such a boy as thou.”

Thus frown'd the Dane, and hurled his massy spear To catch the heart-blood of the chief; while, swift, As vollied light'ning from the sky, behold!

A youthful minstrel rushes in between

The rival combatants, and in his side

Receives the fatal steel. Fast from him flows

The ruddy stream of parting life, and pale

Upon the ground he falls insensible;

While Oscar, with a fierce encounter, turns

Full on the murderer's front, and bathes his sword
Within his ample chest. The traitor groans,

And with a gasp convulsive, swells the slain.