RAISE, raise the song of the hundred shells! Though my hair is grey and my limbs are cold; Yet in my bosom proudly dwells The memory of the days of old; When my voice was high, and my arm was strong, And the foeman before my stroke would bow, And I could have rais'd the sounding song As loudly as I hear ye now. For when I have chanted the bold song of death, Not a page would have stay'd in the hall, Not a lance in the rest, not a sword in the sheath, Not a shield on the dim grey wall. And who might resist the united powers Of battle and music that day, When, all martiall'd in arms on the heaven-kissing towers, Stood the chieftains in peerless array? When our enemies sunk from our eyes as the snow Which falls down the stream in the dell, When each word that I spake was the death of a foe, And each note of my harp was his knell? So raise ye the song of the hundred shells; Though my hair is grey and my limbs are cold, Yet in my bosom proudly dwells The memory of the days of old! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STORY OF SEVENTY-SIX by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON by SIDNEY LANIER VALENTINES TO MY MOTHER: 1883 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE by MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY A NIGHT FANCY by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE LOVE SONGS: 8 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THIRD EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK by ROBERT BURNS THE BUSH-SPARROW by JOHN BURROUGHS MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN PASSION WEEK: FRIDAY by JOHN BYROM |