AN ODE.

(Weave the crimson web of war,)
Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of fate we tread,
Wading thro' th' enfanguin'd field,
Gondula, and Geira, spread
O'er the youthful King your shield.

We the reins to slaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.
(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the desert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample fway shall stretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.

H 4

Low

THE FATAL SISTERS.

Low the dauntles Earl is laid,
Gor'd with many a gaping wound:
Fate demands a nobler head:
Soon a King shall bite the ground.

Long his lofs shall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likenefs fee;
Long her strains in forrow steep;
Strains of immortality!

Horror covers all the heath,
Clouds of carnage blot the fun.
Sifters, weave the web of death.
Sifters, ceafe: The work is done.

Hail the talk, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph sing;
Joy to the victorious bands;
Triumph to the younger King.

Mortal,