 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
143
THE GRAYS AT AVON.
AN IMPROMPTU.
They come! the gallant Grays—
With firm but measured tread,
And their polished arms flash back the rays
By an August morning shed;
And a cry of welcome, long and loud,
Breaks from the lips of the gazing crowd.
With firm but measured tread,
And their polished arms flash back the rays
By an August morning shed;
And a cry of welcome, long and loud,
Breaks from the lips of the gazing crowd.
They move as if one soul
Beat in their proud array,
Timing their march to the drum's deep roll,
And the trumpet's stormy bray—
Oh! matchless strain! the Spartan fife,
And Orlando's horn had less of life.
Beat in their proud array,
Timing their march to the drum's deep roll,
And the trumpet's stormy bray—
Oh! matchless strain! the Spartan fife,
And Orlando's horn had less of life.
Lo! they are passing by—
Those men of martial mien!
And at vine-wreathed porch and casement high
Fair ladies may be seen,
While flowers, bright flowers to the warlike band
Are flung by many a snow-white hand.
Those men of martial mien!
And at vine-wreathed porch and casement high
Fair ladies may be seen,
While flowers, bright flowers to the warlike band
Are flung by many a snow-white hand.
The banner disappears—
No more the music rings,
And a heavy tramp to listening ears
Alone the zephyr brings,
While helmet, plume, and glittering blade
From view like a dream of romance fade.
No more the music rings,
And a heavy tramp to listening ears
Alone the zephyr brings,
While helmet, plume, and glittering blade
From view like a dream of romance fade.
144
Sons of the steel! adieu!
When honor calls, I know
That to home and hearth ye will be true,
And a terror to the foe;
For banner never flung its fold
O'er forms of more heroic mould.
When honor calls, I know
That to home and hearth ye will be true,
And a terror to the foe;
For banner never flung its fold
O'er forms of more heroic mould.
When on the darkened shore
Of time to death ye yield,
And your ordered ranks are seen no more
On life's great battle-field,
May command by the Lord of Hosts be given
That your tents be pitched on the plains of Heaven.
Of time to death ye yield,
And your ordered ranks are seen no more
On life's great battle-field,
May command by the Lord of Hosts be given
That your tents be pitched on the plains of Heaven.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |