Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterred,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come when
Forests are rended;
Come as the waves come when
Navies are stranded; Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom,
Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset!
THERE'S a tramping of hoofs in the busy street,
There's clanking of sabres on floor and stair,
There's sound of restless, hurrying feet,
Of voices that whisper, of lips that entreat,
Will they live, will they die, will they strive, will they dare?
The houses are garlanded, flags flutter gay,
For a troop of the Guard rides forth to-day.
Oh, the troopers will ride and their hearts will leap,
When its shoulder to shoulder and friend to friend-
But it's some to the pinnacle, some to the deep,
And some in the glow of their strength to sleep,
And for all it's a fight to the tale's far end.
And it's each to his goal, nor turn nor sway,
When the troop of the Guard rides forth to-day.
The dawn is upon us, the pale light speeds
To the Zenith with glamor and golden dart. On, up! Boot and saddle! Give spurs to your steeds! There's a city beleaguered that cries for men's deeds, With the pain of the world in its cavernous heart. Ours be the triumph! Humanity calls!
Life's not a dream in the clover!
On to the walls, on to the walls,
On to the walls, and over!
The wine is spent, the tale is spun,
The revelry of youth is done.
The horses prance, the bridles clink,
While maidens fair in bright array
With us the last sweet goblet drink,
Then bid us, 'Mount and ride away!'
Into the dawn we ride, we ride,
Fellow and fellow, side by side;
Galloping over the field and hill,
Over the marshland, stalwart still,
Into the forest's shadowy hush
Where spectres walk in sunless day,
And in dark pool and branch and bush
The treacherous Will o' the Wisp lights play.
Out of the wood 'neath the risen sun,
Weary we gallop, one by one,
To a richer hope and a stronger foe
And a hotter fight in the fields below-
Each man his own slave, each his lord,
For the golden spurs and the victor's sword!
The portals are open, the white road leads
Through wicket and garden, o'er stone and sod. On, up! Boot and saddle! Give spurs to your steeds! There's a city beleaguered that cries for men's deeds, For the faith that is strength and the love that is God! On through the dawning! Humanity calls!
Life's not a dream in the clover.
On to the walls, on to the walls,
On to the walls, and over!
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
LORD BYRON
IN seventeen hundred and fifty-nine,
When Hawke came swooping from the West,
The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line,
Was sailing forth, to sack us, out of Brest.
The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum
With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum, For bragging time was over and fighting time was come When Hawke came swooping from the West.
'Twas long past noon of a wild November day
When Hawke came swooping from the West;
He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay
But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast.
Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight
Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night,
But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for
When Hawke came swooping from the West.
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