Classic Poem

Stung by the war-whip, that four pompons has,
The martial, neighing stallion prances high,
And with the clank of sabre rattlings fly
From metal-plated skirt and bronze cuirass.

The Chief, in lacquer dressed, crepon and brass,
Frees his smooth face from bearded mask, to eye
Nippon's dawn smiling in the roseate sky
Upon the far volcano's snow-crowned mass.

But in the gold-hued east the star's bright ray,
Lighting in glory this disastrous day,
He sees above the sea resplendent glow;

To shield his eyes that would no terror shun,
His iron fan he opens with a blow,
Where burns its satin with a crimson sun.