Classic Poem

Plantagenet, thou laughest, deeming
That thou hast cured us of our dreaming,
Because thy slaves have found a stone,
And “Arthur” is the name thereon.

Our Arthur is not dead, nor hid
'Neath any coffin's stony lid.
Some days ago, myself, I stood
And saw him riding through the wood.

In velvet he was greenly dight;
His lips were laughing, his eyes were bright.
A gallant charger he bestrode,
And hunting with his friends he rode.

I heard his bugle ring and rally—
Tra-ra! tra-ra!—through wood and valley.
Where'er that magic music floats
The sons of Cornwall know the notes.

Tra-ra! tra-ra! They tell us, “Wait,
For soon will dawn the day of fate,
When Arthur with his loyal band
Will chase the Normans from the land.”