The Bulwarks

The first line and the last,

Against each insidious blast,

From that misbegotten wood,

For countless centuries stood.

Among those trees and leaves and darkness

Terrifying in their starkness,

Do the vile and mysterious roam;

threatening Sylvacan hearth and home.

Abominable monsters from beyond the vale;

Who will answer these alarms and wails?

Only those who stand atop the walls 

With souls of grit, wit, and gall. 

Warriors whose tales who were sung,

In ancient weaves when we were young,

Our guardians who always glower,

With terrific and glittering power. 

By the calling of an enraged storm,

Or the casting of a pestilential swarm, 

Drawing lava from beneath the earth,

Or blinding with fog and wind and mirth. 

To strike with the lonely lightning lance,

Or to spiral with a dazzling fiery dance, 

Sylvaca will doubtless stand, 

By its bulwarks so keenly manned.