Classic Poem

" What means yon trumpet's joyous blare?
What mean you shouts of glee?
From out the window let me gaze,
I guess what it may be.

'Tis he — 'tis he; he home returns,
(The festive tourney o'er),
The king's renowned and gallant son,
My love for evermore!

How rears the horse and curvets high!
How firm the prince's seat!
Good sooth, by this but few would guess
He sings so low and sweet!

How glitters there his helm of gold,
The tourney's hard-won prize.
Ah! 'neath it gleam, more dear than all,
His blue, his piercing eyes!

His breast in rigid brass is bound,
His cloak adown him flows;
Ah! 'neath them beats a gentle heart
That love for love bestows.

His right hand kindly greetings gives,
His crest he lowly bends;
Then stoop to him the noble dames —
A roar of shouts ascends.

Why shout ye loud? why stoop ye low?
He greets but only me.
I thank thee, love — I feel so glad —
Good sooth, I welcome thee!

Now enters he his father's hall,
Before him kneels full low;
And there unclasps the golden helm,
The glittering prize to shew.

At eve, his loved one's door he seeks
With footstep light and free;
Then brings he kisses fresh and fond
And ardent love — to me! "