Classic Poem

There was red wine flowing from the flagons,
The jewel-crusted flagons slim and tall,
And a hundred voices, laughing, jesting,
And a hundred toasts ringing down the hall;
For the baron held a feast at the castle,
The gay young baron, lithe and tall.

From the daïs-steps the red drums beating,
And the horns and the silver trumpets blowing,
And the quick sweet rasping of the fiddles,
Set the dancers in the dance-room a-going;
And all through the palace ran the music,
And all night the red wine was flowing.

And the baron led the wassail and the dance,
The gay young baron, lithe and tall,
With gallant smiles and jests for the lovely women guests,
Till the cock crew athwart the castle wall;
But amid the lovely faces rising out of ruffs and laces,
One face for the baron shone fairer than them all.

He had stolen from the drinking and the dancing,
He was standing in the doorway at her side;
He was praying, he was pleading and entreating,
A suit she coquetted and denied
He was praying, he was pleading and entreating,
When the blast of a bugle far and wide.

Rang its clear silver treble in the court-yard,
Three times three, for a sharp battle-call;
And the voice of a trooper hoarsely shouted,
“Ho, barons, for the king, one and all!”
Round and round, over hill and over valley,
Far and wide rang the sharp battle-call.

Round and round rang the news of the rising,
The rising of old Coventry that night;
And the barons, one and all, at the bugle's battle-call,
Mustered forth, fifty strong, for the fight.
Corslets ringing, feathers flinging, pennons swinging,—
O, it must have been a spirit-stirring sight!

Women's faces grew as white as the rose,—
The white rose of York upon each breast;
Red lips in that moment lost their blooming,
Gay hearts in that moment lost their jest.
But out of fifty faces, sorrow-saddened,
There was one face sadder than the rest.

Eyes that a moment since disdained him,
Lips that were laughing and denying,
Heart that coquetted with its wooing,
Now on the wooer's breast is lying;
While the bugle rings its blast, and the troopers rattle past,
Over hill and over valley flying, flying

And the baron rides last, but the baron rides fast,
Over hill and over valley, rides away;
With a smile upon his face, and with a gallant grace,
As if he rode to tournament, or a hunting holiday.
But in the early dawning, in the gray of the morning,
In the front of the fight, his white plumes play

And in the early dawning, in the gray of the morning,
The red field is won ere the day's half begun;
And the cavaliers are shouting, at the roundheads routing,
Till over hill and valley comes creeping up the sun;
Then the shouts and the cheers turn suddenly to tears,
For there on the field, his brief race run,

White and still in the dawning of the wild autumn morning,
White and still, in the chill of the new-risen day,
While the roundheads are flying, the hero lies dying,
Who so late rode straight in the front of the fray;
With a smile upon his face, and with a gallant grace,
As if he rode to tournament or a hunting holiday.