Classic Poem

Down below, the battle loud;
Overhead, on steeds of cloud,
Three Valkyries. With a clang,
As of hurtling shields, they sang:

“Princes quarrel, nations fight
For the mastery by might,
Power the highest boon they crave;
None has virtue but the brave.

“Ha! no helmet proud can sheathe
Heads that Fate has doomed to death.
And the hero's race is run,
And the weaker man has won.

“Laurel crowns, triumphal arches!
To the gates to-morrow marches
He who slew the better foe,
Land and lieges winning so.

“Senators and burgomaster
Haste—they cannot hasten faster—
With the keys, and favour win,
And the conqueror enters in.

“From the ramparts cannons roar,
Trumpets brazen music pour,
Bells take up the joyful tale,
And the populace shouts, ‘Hail!’

“Garlands fall on every side;
Lovely women watch him ride;
On the balconies they crowd;
And he greets them calm and proud.”