 | The Last Crusade |  |
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THE RIDERS OF THE AIR.
Not once or twice the summons came, they heard
The call of Duty—
Its promise, and the one predestined word;
Their hearts as with a trumpet peal were stirred,
And forth they went clothed in immortal beauty.
No currents tidal
And no kind kisses of a favouring breeze
Wafted them, when they voyaged the blue seas;
They sped, as doth the bridegroom to his bridal,
Because they must obey those awful pleas.
The Riders of the Air,
Dreadfully lone and most divinely fair.
The call of Duty—
Its promise, and the one predestined word;
Their hearts as with a trumpet peal were stirred,
And forth they went clothed in immortal beauty.
No currents tidal
And no kind kisses of a favouring breeze
Wafted them, when they voyaged the blue seas;
They sped, as doth the bridegroom to his bridal,
Because they must obey those awful pleas.
The Riders of the Air,
Dreadfully lone and most divinely fair.
One goeth with them, but they heed him not,
A shadow shameless
That over regal splendour casts a spot;
They have no fear, for trial is their lot,
And speed to front him with a spirit tameless.
Of new creation
Their courage is the vital quickening breath,
And he must bravely ride who rides with death;
Ah, each fresh budding-point, each revelation,
Builds on the lives of men trod down beneath.
The Riders of the Air
Sit on a throne, more than a monarch's chair.
A shadow shameless
That over regal splendour casts a spot;
They have no fear, for trial is their lot,
And speed to front him with a spirit tameless.
Of new creation
Their courage is the vital quickening breath,
And he must bravely ride who rides with death;
Ah, each fresh budding-point, each revelation,
Builds on the lives of men trod down beneath.
The Riders of the Air
Sit on a throne, more than a monarch's chair.
The Pioneers of duty dare not swerve,
And sweet is peril
To those whose only glory is to serve;
But for adventure, with its comet curve,
The vine were barren and the cornfield sterile.
By treasure shattered
Come larger worlds and loftier harvest yields,
Paved with bright hopes and broken hearts and shields;
Souls must be given and seed eternal scattered,
For doom and suffering are men's playing-fields.
The Riders of the Air,
Time's last grand triumph—that none need despair.
And sweet is peril
To those whose only glory is to serve;
But for adventure, with its comet curve,
The vine were barren and the cornfield sterile.
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Come larger worlds and loftier harvest yields,
Paved with bright hopes and broken hearts and shields;
Souls must be given and seed eternal scattered,
For doom and suffering are men's playing-fields.
The Riders of the Air,
Time's last grand triumph—that none need despair.
| The Last Crusade | |