And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright
With gold, reflecting every tint of light,
And many a floating plume, and blazon'd shield,
Diffused romantic splendor o'er the field.
There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start
Swift to the mantling cheek, and beating heart.
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh,
The measured tread of hosts in war's array;
And oh! that music, whose exulting breath
Speaks but of glory on the road to death;
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour;
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain,
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain;
And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife,
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.
High o'er the camp, in many a broider'd fold,
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold:
There, imaged on the cross, his form appears,
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears.9[1]
His form, whose word recall'd the spirit, fled,
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead!
