Classic Poem

What matters that it is not known,
That no false tongue could tell,
That half of mankind would atone?
I know the truth too well.
Could I by kneeling to a Priest
Lift my soul out of hell?

The rose that in a garden grew,
The singing of a bird,
The red lips wet with love's warm dew,
The serpent whisper heard.
And I had kissed my father's sword
And pledged my knighted word.

Now I must take his hand in mine
And look him in the eyes,
And I must pledge his health in wine
And live a world of lies —
And sail with him to Palestine,
Where honour never dies.