 | Small Tableaux |  |
100
MARTIAL ARDOUR IN AGE.
Oh! if ye marvel that mine eye doth glowNow every pulse of fervid youth is lost,
Ye never heard the kingly trumpets blow,
Nor felt the fieldward stirring of a host;
Nor how the bayonet assures the hand
That it can never fail, while Death doth stand
Amid the thunders of the reckless drum,
And the loud scorn of fifes, ashamed and dumb!
Nor, when the noble revel dies away,
How proud they lie upon the stainèd mould,
A presence, too majestic to gainsay,
Of lordly martial bearing, mute and cold,
Which Honour knows o' th' instant! such as lay
On Morat late, or Marathon of old!
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