Classic Poem

Blare of trumpet and roll of drum!
Hath the day of my fancy come?

Dimly the house-tops seem to sway
Over the mile-long crowded way

To the palace portals: and hark!—the cry,
“Hail to the victor who passes by!”

Banner and pennon flutter red,
Dyed with the blood that my hands have shed;

And red and white are the roses strewn
Under my horse's silver shoon:

But O, for the face that I do not see
In casement, or in balcony!

Hides she there, where the shadows lurk,
Under the awnings of needle-work?—

Silent and pale, with her white hands pressed
Over the tumult of her breast?—

Stands she to gaze?—And her eyes, forlorn,
Look they in hatred, or pride, or scorn?

Onward! neither to left nor right
Let me glance in the rabble's sight!

Neither by word nor sign reveal
The sad, sick brain in the casque of steel!

Empty pageant and passing show!
Thus doth the day of my fancy go!

These, the guerdons of love's duress—
Pain, and peril, and weariness!

Better, mayhap, if the foeman's spear
Under my cuirass were buried here!

Better if now, through the gala town,
Heralded thus, I was riding down,

As the sweet Saints grant that I soon may ride,
Shrouded, and shriven, and satisfied!

Yea, that I never had heard the cry,
“Hail to the victor who passes by!”