A STEED! a steed of matchlesse speed, A sword of metal keene! All else to noble heartes is drosse, All else on earth is meane. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war-cryes swell, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine; Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish feares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand -- Heart-whole we'll part, and no whir sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye; Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die! |