Classic Poem

The air is valiant with drums
And honourable the skies,
When he rides singing as he comes
With solemn, dreamy eyes—
Of swinging of the splendid swords,
And crashing of the nether lords,
When Hell makes onslaught with its hordes
In desperate emprise.

He rides along the roads of Spain
The champion of the world,
For whom great soldans live again
With Moorish beards curled—
But all their spears shall not avail
With one who weareth magic mail,
This hero of an epic tale
And his brave gauntlet hurled!

Clangour of horses and of arms
Across the quiet fields,
Herald and trumpeter, alarms
Of bowmen and of shields;
When doubt that twists and is afraid
Is shattered in the last crusade,
Where flaunts the plume and falls the blade
The cavalier wields.

Although in that eternal cause
No liegemen gather now,
Or flowered dames to grant applause,
Yet on his naked brow
The victor's laurels interwreath;
BuThe no dower can bequeath
But sword snapped short and empty sheath
And errantry and vow!

Against his foolish innocence
No man alive can stand,
Nor any giant drive him hence
With sling or club or brand—
For where his angry bugle blows
There fall unconquerable foes;
Of mighty men of war none knows
To stay his witless hand.

All legendary wars grow tame
And every tale gives place
Before the knight's unsullied name
And his romantic face:
Yea, he shall break the stoutest bars
And bear his courage and his scars
Beyond the whirling moons and stars
And all the suns of space!