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Poem by Robert Stephen Hawker
HEAR how the noble Siward died! The leech hath told the woful bride ’T is 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 leaned 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 remembered theme; A daily vow that lady said, Where glory wreathed the hero dead. Gaze, maiden, gaze on Dupath Well. Time yet hath spared that solemn cell, In memory of old love and pride: Hear how the noble Siward died.
Robert Stephen Hawker
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