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High on his throne sat Bran Mak Morn
When the sun-god sank and the west was red;
He beckoned a girl with his drinking horn,
And, "Sing me a song of the race," he said.

Her eyes were as dark as the seas of night,
Her lips were as red as the setting sun,
As, a dusky rose in the fading light,
She let her fingers dreamily run

Over the golden-whispered strings,
Seeking the soul of her ancient lyre;
Bran sate still on the throne of kings,
Bronze face linmed in the sunset's fire.

"First of the race of men," she sang,
"Far from an unknown land we came,
From the rim of the world where mountains hang
And the seas burn red with the sunset flame.

"First and last of the race are we,
Gone is the old world's gilt and pride,
Mu is a myth of the western sea,
Through the halls of Atlantis the white sharks glide."

An image of bronze , the king sate still,
Javelins of crimson shot the west,
She brushed the strings and a murmured thrill
Swept up the chords to the highest crest.

"Hear ye the tale that the ancients tell,
Promised of yore by the god of the moon,
Hurled on the shore a deep sea shell,
Carved on the surface a mystic rune:

"'As ye were first in the mystic past
Out of the fogs of the dim of Time,
So shall the men of your race be last
When the world shall curmble,' so ran the rhyme.

"' A man of your race, on the peaks that clash,
Shall gaze on the reeling world below;
To billowing smoke shall he see it crash,
A floating fog of the winds that blow.

"'Star-dust falling for aye through space.
Whirling about in the winds that spin;
Ye that were first, be the last-most race,
For one of your men shall be the last of men.'"

Into the silence her voice trailed off,
Yet still it echoed across the dusk,
Over the heather the night-wind soft
Bore the scent of the forest's musk.

Red lips lifted, and the dark eyes dreamed,
Bats came wheeling on stealthy wings;
But the moon rose gold and the far stars gleamed,
And the king still sat on the throne of kings.

by Robert E. Howard