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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Veil, maidens, veil your warm cheeks of the rose,
Ye are slaves of my sceptre, I reck not of those!"
The Monarch rose up with the reddening of morn,
He rose to the music of trumpet and horn;
His banner is spread to the sun and the wind,
In thousands the plain by his warriors is lined.
The foot ranks go first, their bows in their hand,
In multitudes gathering like waves on the strand;
Behind ride his horsemen, as onwards they come,
Each proud steed is covering his bridle with foam.
In the midst is the king: there is pride on his brow,
As he looks on the myriads that follow him now,
His eye and his sabre are flashing alike,
Woe, woe for the warrior that dares him to strike!
