The Great Adventure

'T IS sweet to hear of heroes dead,
— To know them still alive;
But sweeter if we earn their bread,
— And in us they survive.

Ye skies, drop gently round my breast
— And be my corselet blue;
Ye earth, receive my lance in rest,
— My faithful charger you:

Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,
— My arrow-tips ye are:
I see the routed foemen fly
— My bright spears fixed [for war].

Give me an angel for a foe!
— Fix now the place and time!
And straight to meet him I will go
— Above the starry chime:

And with our clashing bucklers' clang
— The heavenly spheres shall ring,
While bright the northern lights shall hang
— Beside our tourneying.

And if she lose her champion true,
— Tell Heaven not to despair,
For I will be her champion new,
— Her fame I will repair.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.