Classic Poem

The horn and the trumpet are ringing afar,
As the summons to battle is sounding;
And the steed, as he catches the signal of war,
In the pride of his spirit is bounding.
Shrill it echoes afar, over hill and o'er plain,
And the wide distant mountains repeat it again;
And the shout of the warrior, and nearer the song,
Peal aloud, as the glittering bands are hurrying along.
As on, on, on, on, pours the tide of fight,
Still aloft floats the tossing flag, in the glance of morning's light.

We leap to our saddles, we range us in line,
As the voice of the trumpet is calling.
O'er the crown of yon ridge, bright their drawn sabres shine;
Down its slope, like a flood, they are falling.
“Give the spur,—to the charge,—ere the foeman is nigh:
Rush amain, as the forest rings loud with your cry:
Speed on to the shock, in his midway career,—
For our sires still were first in fight; they never thought of fear!”
So on, on, on, on, o'er the sounding plain,
To the wild conflict fierce they rush, and together dash amain.