258
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
A banner, from its flashing spear
Flung out o'er many a fight,
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance—
Chief! were not these things thine:
A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council-board;
In festive halls a chair of state
When the blood-red wine was pour'd;
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;—
Surely these things were all thine own,
So hadst thou thy reward.
