The Sword

Trust me, my pious child, take the old road:
This sword, with straight cross-guards in twist aright,
Used by an ardent gentleman of might,
Is lighter than a Romish ritual's load.

Take it. The Hercules thy touch has glowed,
Its gold by thy grandsires' use kept bright,
Now swells beneath its surface splendor-dight
The beauteous, iron muscles of a God.

Try it. The supple steel a bouquet shows
Of sparks. The solid blade is one of those
To send a prideful shiver through the breast;

Bearing, in hollow of its brilliant gorge,
Like noble Dame a gem, the stamp impressed
Of Julian del Rey, prince of the forge.