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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
THE FALCON:
THE LAY OF THE NORMAN KNIGHT.
I hear a sound o'er hill and plain,
It doth not pass away.
Is it the valleys that ring forth
Their welcome to the day?
Or is it that the lofty woods,
Touch'd by the morn, rejoice?
No, 'tis another sound than these,—
It is the battle's voice.
I see the martial ranks, I see
Their banners floating there,
And plume and spear rise meteor like
Upon the reddening air.
One mark'd I most of all,—he was
Mine own familiar friend;
