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The poet of chivalry himself might be justly proud of this spirited description, and even more so of the following battle-scenes:—
"The ranks are set, the hosts are met,
The morning sun-beams shine
O'er tents with dews of night-fall wet,
O'er the long warrior line.
By heaven! it is a glorious thing
Upon the gallant steed to spring,
With white plume dancing o'er the crest,
With spur on heel, and spear in rest,
And sword impatient of its night;
A sun that reddens into light;
To feel the energy of strife;
The life that is so much of life;
The pulse's quickened beat, the eye
Whose dark light kindles to defy.
By heaven! it is a glorious pride
To lead the stormy battle-tide.
Ay! let the crimson banner spread,
So soon to wear a darker red;
Let the proud trumpet wake the air,
As Victory's sounding wing were there.
It is in Death's and Danger's hour
That most existence feels its power!"
Hear you not, in the energy of these noble lines, the spirit-stirring voice of the clarion sounding to the charge?
But, look again, and see the end of the strife:—
"And is this all?—the flush and glow
When war's wild waves at morning flow?
Ah, no! night cometh, and she flings
The weight and darkness of her wings;
The tide has ebbed, the beach is left,
Of its bright panoply bereft;
The glittering waves that caught the sun,
Their light is past, their course is done:
The field is fought!—who walketh there?
The shadow Victory casts—Despair!
D
