Very quietly they sleep, Where the cliffs stand, grim and steep; Where the shadows, long and cool, From the side of great Berule, Sweeping from the changing sky, As the silent days go by, Touch at last the ceaseless waves, Thundering 'neath the Vikings' graves. Fitting requiem do they make, As they gather, roll and break, For the warrior kings of man, Who, as only Islesmen can, Loved the glory and the glee Of the ever-changing sea; Drew from her their stormy breath, Sought her for the calm of death. Very quietly they rest, With the green turf on their breast; Mace, and blade, and mighty shield, Arms that they alone could wield, Notched and browned by blow and rust, Lying silent by their dust, Who in the sweet sunny Isle, Held thtir own by them erewhile. Chance and change have swept away Relics of the elder day. Like the tiny "Church of Treen," Ruins tell of what has been; Times of prayer and praise devout, Times of furious fray and rout, Times of royal pageantry, Passed away-and here they lie. Solemnly, to quiet graves, Rowed across the subject waves To their last homes Vikings came, With songs of triumph and acclaim; Then Berule looks grimly down On hero dead, on forfeit crown, On chanting monk, and sail, and prow, Even as he watches now. "Peace," says the stranger as he stands, Gazing o'er the golden sands, Where, with endless crash and shock, Breakers surge round Niarbyl Rock; Where the sea-mews sweep and cry; Where Fleshwick towers to the sky;
Very quietly they sleep,
Where the cliffs stand, grim and steep;
Where the shadows, long and cool,
From the side of great Berule,
Sweeping from the changing sky,
As the silent days go by,
Touch at last the ceaseless waves,
Thundering 'neath the Vikings' graves.
Fitting requiem do they make,
As they gather, roll and break,
For the warrior kings of man,
Who, as only Islesmen can,
Loved the glory and the glee
Of the ever-changing sea;
Drew from her their stormy breath,
Sought her for the calm of death.
Very quietly they rest,
With the green turf on their breast;
Mace, and blade, and mighty shield,
Arms that they alone could wield,
Notched and browned by blow and rust,
Lying silent by their dust,
Who in the sweet sunny Isle,
Held thtir own by them erewhile.
Chance and change have swept away
Relics of the elder day.
Like the tiny "Church of Treen,"
Ruins tell of what has been;
Times of prayer and praise devout,
Times of furious fray and rout,
Times of royal pageantry,
Passed away-and here they lie.
Solemnly, to quiet graves,
Rowed across the subject waves
To their last homes Vikings came,
With songs of triumph and acclaim;
Then Berule looks grimly down
On hero dead, on forfeit crown,
On chanting monk, and sail, and prow,
Even as he watches now.
"Peace," says the stranger as he stands,
Gazing o'er the golden sands,
Where, with endless crash and shock,
Breakers surge round Niarbyl Rock;
Where the sea-mews sweep and cry;
Where Fleshwick towers to the sky;
Like a chefs kiss this was beautiful.
Thank you very much, I'm happy you liked it.
It's so so beautiful 😍 can we have lyrics pls?
Yes! I will post them in a comment right now, Thank You for listening!