Classic Poem

At least, it was a life of swords,
— Our life! nor lived in vain:
We fought the fight with mighty lords,
— Nor dastards have we slain.

We stirred at morn, and through bright air
— Swept to the trysting place:
Winds of the mountains in our hair,
— And sunrise on each face.

No need to spur! our horses knew
— The joy, to which we went:
Over the brightening lands they flew
— Forward, and were content.

On each man's lips, an happy smile;
— In each man's eyes, delight:
So, fired with foretaste, mile on mile,
— We thundered to the fight.

Let death come now, and from the sun
— Hide me away: what then?
My days have seen more prowess done,
— Than years of other men.

Oh, warriors of the rugged heights,
— We, where the eagles nest:
They, courtly soldiers, gentle knights,
— By kings and dames caressed.

Not theirs, the passion of the sword,
— The fire of living blades!
Like men, they fought: and found reward
— In dance and feast, like maids.

We, on the mountain lawns encamped,
— Close under the great stars,
Turned, when the horses hard by stamped,
— And dreamed again, of wars:

Or, if one woke, he saw the gleam
— Of moonlight, on each face,
Touch its tumultuary dream
— With moments of mild grace.

We hated no man; but we fought
— With all men: the fierce wind
Lashes the wide earth without thought;
— Our tempest scourged mankind.

They cursed us, living without laws!
— They, in their pride of peace:
Who bared no blade, but in just cause:
— Nor grieved, that war should cease.

O spirit of the wild hill-side!
— O spirit of the steel!
We answered nothing, when they cried,
— But challenged with a peal.

And, when the battle blood had poured
— To slake our souls' desire:
Oh, brave to hear, how torrents roared
— Beside the pinewood fire!

My brothers, whom in warrior wise
— The death of deaths hath stilled!
Ah, you would understand these eyes,
— Although with strange tears filled!