Classic Poem

A STEED , a steed of matchless speed!
—A sword of metal keen!
All else to noble hearts is dross,
—All else on earth is mean.
The neighing of the war-horse proud,
—The rolling of the drum,
The clangor of the trumpet loud,
—Be sounds from heaven that come;
And oh! the thundering press of knights,
—Whenas their war-cries swell,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
—And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mount! then mount, brave gallants all,
—And don your helms amain;
Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
—Us to the field again.
No shrewish fears shall fill our eye
—When the sword-hilt's in our hand—
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigh
—For the fairest of the land!
Let piping swain, and craven wight,
—Thus weep and puling cry;
Our business is like men to fight,
—And hero-like to die!