 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
IX
TRIUMPH
SEE how the blue-girt hills are spread
With regal cloth of gold;
How, panoplied in haughty red,
The frosted maples stand;
The golden rod, with torch alight,
Makes glory up the wold—
As though a monarch's bannered might
Were marching up the land!
With regal cloth of gold;
How, panoplied in haughty red,
The frosted maples stand;
The golden rod, with torch alight,
Makes glory up the wold—
As though a monarch's bannered might
Were marching up the land!
Now should ecstatic bugles fret
The hush, and drums should roll;
The shawms of all the breezes set
The scarlet leaves a-dance!
And now should flash in vatic rhyme
The battles of the Soul—
To welcome to the realm of Time
The Vanquisher of Chance!
The hush, and drums should roll;
The shawms of all the breezes set
The scarlet leaves a-dance!
And now should flash in vatic rhyme
The battles of the Soul—
To welcome to the realm of Time
The Vanquisher of Chance!
For, though there rolls no gilded car
That spurns the shaken earth,
And shout no captains, flinging far
The law to parlous spears;
With throbbing hearts for smitten drums,
Up through the Gates of Birth—
The Victor comes! The Victor comes!
To claim the ripened years!
That spurns the shaken earth,
And shout no captains, flinging far
The law to parlous spears;
With throbbing hearts for smitten drums,
Up through the Gates of Birth—
The Victor comes! The Victor comes!
To claim the ripened years!
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| The Stranger at the Gate | |