How rich the wave, in front, imprest
With evening-twilight's summer hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent path pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream,
A little moment past so smiling!
And still perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure;
But heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
--And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see,
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such heart did once the poet bless,
Who, pouring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress
Save in the milder grief of pity.

Remembrance! as we glide along,
For him suspend the dashing oar,
And pray that never child of Song
May know his freezing sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue’s holiest powers attended.

God of the battle, hear our prayer! 
By the lifted falchion's glare; 
By the uncouth fane sublime, 
Marked with many a Runic rhyme; 
By the "weird sisters" dread, 
That, posting through the battle red, 
Choose the slain, and with them go 
To Valhalla's halls below, 
Where the phantom-chiefs prolong 
Their echoing feast, a giant throng, 
And their dreadful beverage drain 
From the skulls of warriors slain: 
God of the battle, hear our prayer: 
And may we thy banquet share!

Save us, God, from slow disease; 
From pains that the brave spirit freeze; 
From the burning fever's rage; 
From wailings of unhonoured age, 
Drawing painful his last breath; 
Give us in the battle death! 
Let us lift our glittering shield, 
And perish, perish in the field!

Now o'er Cumri's hills of snow 
To death, or victory, we go; 
Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare; 
See! they bind their yellow hair; 
Frenzy flashes from their eye, 
They fly — our foes before them fly! 

Woden, in thy empire drear, 
Thou the groans of death dost hear, 
And welcome to thy dusky hall 
Those that for their country fall! 

Hail, all hail the godlike train, 
That with thee the goblet drain; 
Or with many a huge compeer, 
Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear! 
Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread 
Echo to their giant tread, 
And ten thousand thousand shields 
Flashed lightning o'er their glimmering fields! 

Hark! the battle-shouts begin — 
Louder sounds the glorious din: 
Louder than the ice's roar, 
Bursting on the thawing shore; 
Or crashing pines that strew the plain, 
When the whirlwinds hurl the main! 
Riding through the death-field red, 
And singling fast the destined dead, 
See the fatal sisters fly! 
Now my throbbing breast beats high — 
Now I urge my panting steed, 
Where the foemen thickest bleed. 
Soon exulting I shall go, 
Woden, to thy halls below; 
Or o'er the victims, as they die, 
Chaunt the song of Victory!