Part 6 (1/2)
Pikemen, dividing on both flanks, Open the pageantry; Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, And silk-robed barons lead the ranks-- The pink of gallantry!
In scarfs of gold the priests admire; The heralds on white steeds; Armorial pride decks their attire, Worn in remembrance of some sire Famed for heroic deeds.
Feared by the Paynim's dark divan, The Templars next advance; Then the tall halberds of Lausanne, Foremost to stand in battle van Against the foes of France.
Now hail the duke, with radiant brow, Girt with his cavaliers; Round his triumphant banner bow Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now!
Here come the cymbaleers!
She spoke--with searching eye surveyed Their ranks--then, pale, aghast, Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid-- 'Twas mercy to that loving maid-- _The cymbaleers had pa.s.sed!_
”FATHER PROUT” (FRANK S. MAHONY)
BATTLE OF THE NORs.e.m.e.n AND THE GAELS.
_(”Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!”)_
[VII., September, 1825.]
Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey!
Ye wolves of war, make no delay!
For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall Ere night may veil with purple pall.
The evening psalms are nearly o'er, And priests who follow in our train Have promised us the final gain, And filled with faith our valiant corps.
Let orphans weep, and widows brood!
To-morrow we shall wash the blood Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent, So, close the ranks and fire the tent!
And chill yon coward cavalcade With brazen bugles blaring loud, E'en though our chargers' neighing proud Already has the host dismayed.
Spur, hors.e.m.e.n, spur! the charge resounds!
On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds!
Through helmet plumes the arrows flit, And plated b.r.e.a.s.t.s the pikeheads split.
The double-axe fells human oaks, And like the thistles in the field See bristling up (where none must yield!) The points hewn off by sweeping strokes!
We, heroes all, our wounds disdain; Dismounted now, our horses slain, Yet we advance--more courage show, Though stricken, seek to overthrow The victor-knights who tread in mud The writhing slaves who bite the heel, While on caparisons of steel The maces thunder--cudgels thud!
Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred, Seize each your man and hug him dead!
Who falls unslain will only make A mouthful to the wolves who slake Their month-whet thirst. No captives, none!
We die or win! but should we die, The lopped-off hand will wave on high The broken brand to hail the sun!
MADELAINE.