Are glistening in the ray. How beautiful,
How glorious, and how glad they move to death!
The very banners sweep as they were proud
To spread their crimson foldings to the air.
Here the young warrior curbs his foaming steed,
Impatient for his first of fields; and here
The toil-worn veteran, with his locks of age,
White as the war-plume waving o'er his helm,
Pants for the bursting of the battle storm.
How bright, how envied, is the warrior's fate!
For him will glory bind her choicest wreaths
Of fadeless laurels;—his the stormy joy,
Which the brave spirit feels at honour's call,
When the bard wakes his proudest minstrelsy:
(And what can thrill the harp like warlike theme?)
His deeds will be remembered, and his name
Will live for ever in the breath of song:
Love's fairest roses 'neath the laurel grow,
And woman's fondest sigh is for the brave.
