THE banners rustle in the breeze, The angry trumpets swell; They call me, lady, from thy arms, They bid me sigh farewell! They call me to a heathen land, To quell a heathen foe; To leave love's blandishments, and court Rude dangers, strife, and wo. Yet deem not, lady, though afar It be my hap to roam, That this right loyal heart can stray From love, from thee, and home. No! in the tumult of the fight, Midst Salem's chivalrie, The thought that arms this hand with death Shall be the thought of thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WITCH by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE by EZRA POUND QUITS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH OVID TO HIS WIFE: IMITATED FROM DIFFERENT PARTS OF TRISTIA by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |