 | The bridal of Vaumond
|  |
|
XVIII.
Trumpet's notes are loudly waking;
Down the hill, like torrent breaking,
Pours a motley half-arm'd troop
Of hardy liegemen true—
To hearts, that hopeless would not droop,
Now hope lent fervour new.
That gathering mist with the war-cloud blended,
The thunders of the strife ascended;
And darker its swart shadows pour
Along the sluggish tides of gore.
The peaceful steel that bade the field
The golden hopes of labour yield,
Now, in the iron harvest cast
Plate and mail and sinew brast,
Flash'd in the day's broad eye bright gleaming,
Then rose again, all purply streaming.
All rank was broke—save that firm girt
That guards the monarch, yet unhurt;
In war's delirium then began
The desp'rate strife of man with man,
One wild, continuous uproar drown'd
The yellings of the bugle's sound.
| The bridal of Vaumond
| |
|
