University of Virginia Library


31

THE ANCIENT MINSTREL.

How much is to be done! how few the arms!
How few the lances! Fortress, fosse and tower,
Gird in the wrong that spoils the peaceful bower,
And robs the maiden's charms!
Fair chivalry and knighthood are but specks,
Beacons faint glimmering in a night-spread land!
Ah! happy champion, he who forth shall stand,
To bruise of wrong the hundred Hydra necks!
Upon the battlements the captive maiden
Looks out on distance: “Will no hero come?
No sound of horn or hoof?” The woods are dumb!
Are dumb—and her poor heart with care o'erladen!
How many loving hearts, what great reward,
Lie stored for thee, O knight of laurelled brow!

32

Ah! who would rein or rowel slacken now,
Till he return thus crowned, thus honor-scarred?
Of listless wintered age a shattered weight,
My idle song enrolls a deathless fate.
Oh, give me, youth, thy nervèd arm and lance,
The fire, fame's glowing herald, in thy glance—
And I will do some miracle of praise!