Poem: The War-Horn



The War-Horn

Over hills and meadows,
Under sun and azure skies,
Through rain and rushing wind;
Ready men on leather saddles
Riding lightly armored horses,
Steered on by leather reins.
Men holding bearded axes,
Some holding hilts of swords,
Others holding steel-tipped spears,
And shields with painted suns.
Green and brown their garments,
Leather belts around their waists,
Splinted bracers on their arms,
Rings of mail on rising chests,
And silver helms on golden heads.
Among the fabled horsemen,
There rides a man of honor.
To his mouth he takes his war-horn,
Fills his lungs with air of morning,
Sets his lips against the mouthpiece,
And then he blows his war-horn;
A roaring bellow over rolling hills,
Birds scatter to the skies in flight,
Deer nimbly to the forests flee.
Again he blows the war-horn,
A second time, and then a third;
The war-horn calls to battle,
Calling for the sons of Eorl.
Over hills and meadows,
Under sun and azure skies,
Through rain and rushing wind,
A thousand hooves in gallop
As men ride into battle;

And the war-horn sounds again,
Calling for the sons of Eorl.