Dupath Well

Hear how the noble Siward died !
The Leech hath told the woeful bride
'Tis vain : his passing hour is nigh,
And death must quench her warrior's eye.

" Bring me," he said, " the steel I wore
When Dupath spring was dark with gore,
The spear I raised for Githa's glove,
Those trophies of my wars and love."

Upright he sate within the bed,
The helm on his unyielding head :
Sternly he lean'd upon his spear,
He knew his passing hour was near.

" Githa ! thine hand ! " how wild that cry,
How fiercely glared his flashing eye ;
" Sound ! herald ! " was his shout of pride :
Hear how the noble Siward died !

A roof must shade that storied stream,
Her dying lord's remember'd theme ;
A daily vow that lady said
Where glory wreath'd the hero dead.

Gaze, maiden, gaze on Dupath Well,
Time yet hath spar'd that solemn cell —
In memory of old love and pride :
Hear how the noble Siward died.