The Revenge of Duke Swerting

O, A WARRIOR'S feast was Swerting's in his Burg beside the Rhine;
There from gloomy iron bell-cups they drank the Saxon wine,

And the viands were served in iron up, in coldest iron all,
And the sullen clash of iron arms resounded through the hall.

Uneasily sat Frotho there, the Tyrant of the Danes;
With louring brow he quaffed his cup, then eyed the iron chains
That hung and clanked like manacles at Swerting's arms and breast,
And the iron studs and linked rings that bossed his ducal vest.

"What may this bode, this chilling gloom, Sir Duke and Brother Knights?
"Why meet I here such wintry cheer, such sorry sounds and sights?

Out on your shirts of iron! Will ye bear to have it told
That I found ye thus when Danish knights go clad in silks and gold?"—

"King! Gold befits the freeman, the Iron marks the slave;
So thought and spake our fathers, and their sons are just and brave:
Thyself hast bound the iron round thy proud but conquered foe;
If thy chains had been but golden we had burst them long ago.

"But I came not here to hold a parle, or tell a tristful tale,
But to bid the dastard tremble and to make the tyrant quail.

O, strong, Sir King, is iron, but the heart is stronger still,
Nor Earth nor Hell can cast in thrall a People's mighty Will!"

While his words yet rang like cymbals, there strode into the hall
Twelve swarthy Saxon Rittersmen, with flaming torches tall;
They stood to catch a signal-glance from Svverting's eagle eye,
Then again they rushed out, waving their pitchy brands on high.

The Danish King grows paler, yet he brims his goblet higher;
But the sultry hall is dark with smoke; he hears the hiss of fire!
Yes! the Red Avenger marches on his fierce and swift career,
And from man to man goes round the whisper, " Brother, it is near!"

Up starts the King; he turns to fly; Duke Swerting holds him fast.
"Nay, Golden King, the dice are down, and thou must v bide the cast.
If thy chains can fetter THIS fell foe, the glory be thine own,
Thine be the Saxon Land for aye, and thine the Saxon throne!"

But hotter, hotter burns the air all through that lurid hall,
And louder groan the blackened beams; the crackling rafters fall,

And ampler waxes momently the glare, the volumed flash,
Till at last the roof-tree topples down with stunning thundercrash.

Then in solemn prayer that gallant band of Self-devoted kneel —
"Just GOD! assoil our souls, thus driven to Freedom's last appeal!"

And Frotho writhes and rages, fire stifling his quick gasp,
But, strong and terrible as Death, his foe maintains his grasp.

"Behold, thou haughty tyrant, behold what MEN can dare!

So triumph such, — so perish, too, enslavers everywhere!"

And the billowy flames, while yet he speaks, come roaring down the hall,

And the Fatherland is loosed for aye from Denmark's iron thrall!