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THE RIDERS
23
O our Rheims, our Rheims is down,
Naught is left of her renown.
Hist! what sound is in the breeze,
Like the sighing of forest trees?
Or a great wind, or an army,
Or the waves of the wild sea?
The tall knight rides fierce and fast
To the sound of a trumpet-blast.
The little knight in fire and flame,
Slender and soft as a dame,
Rides and is not far behind:
His long hair floats on the wind.
And ever the tramp of chivalry
Comes like the sound of the sea.
This is Michael rides abroad,
Prince of the army of God,
And this like a lily arrayed,
Is Joan, the blessed Maid.
Rheims is down in fire and smoke
And the hour of God's at the stroke.
