Classic Poem

High in Battle's antlered hall
Ancient as its abbey wall,
Hangs a helmet, brown with rust,
Cobweb'd o'er, and thick in dust:
High it hangs, 'mid pikes and bows,
Scowling still at spectral foes,
Proud and stern with vizor down,
And fearful in its feudal frown.

When I saw, what ail'd thee, heart,
Wherefore should I stop, and start?
That old helm, with that old crest,
Is more to me than all the rest;
Battered, broken though it be,
That old helm is all to me.

Yon black greyhound know I well:
Many a tale hath it to tell,
How in troublous times of old
Sires of mine, with bearing bold,
Bearing bold, but much mischance,
Sway'd the sword, or poised the lance;
Much mischance, desponding still,
They fought and fell, foreboding ill:
And their scallop, gules with blood,
Fessed amid the azure flood,
Show'd the pilgrim, slain afar
Over the sea, in Holy War:
While that faithful greyhound black
Vainly watch'd the wild boar's track,
And the legend and the name
Proved all lost but hope and fame:
Tout est perdu , fors l'honneur,
Mas " L'Espoir est ma force " sans peur.