The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems

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THE COMING OF THE PRINCESS; AND OTHER POEMS.

BY

KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN, KINGSTON, ONTARIO.

AN INTRODUCTION, BY THE EDITOR OF "THE CANADIAN MONTHLY."

INTRODUCTION.

BY G MERCER ADAM.

The request of the author that I should write a few words of preface to this collection of poems must be my excuse for obtruding myself upon the reader. Having frequently had the pleasure as editor of The Canadian Monthly, of introducing many of Mrs. MacLean's poems to lovers of verse in the Dominion it was thought not unfitting that I should act as foster father to the collection of them here made and to bespeak for the volume at the hands at least of all Canadians the appreciative and kindly reception due to a

Child of the first winds and suns of a nation.

Accepting the task assigned to me the more readily as I discern the high and sustained excellence of the collection as a whole let me ask that the volume be received with interest as a further and most meritorious contribution to the poetical literature of our young country (the least that can be said of the work), and with sympathy for the intellectual and moral aspirations that have called it into being.

There is truth, doubtless, in the remark, that we are enriched less by what we have than by what we hope to have. As the poetic art in Canada has had little of an appreciable past, it may therefore be thought that the songs that are to catch and retain the ear of the nation lie still in the future, and are as yet unsung. Doubtless the chords have yet to be struck that are to give to Canada the songs of her loftiest genius; but he would be an ill friend of the country's literature who would slight the achievements of the present in reaching solely after what, it is hoped, the coming time will bring.

But whatever of lyrical treasure the future may enshrine in Canadian literature, and however deserving may be the claims of the volumes of verse that have already appeared from the native press, I am bold to claim for these productions of Mrs. MacLean's muse a high place in the national collection and a warm corner in the national heart.

To discern the merit of a poem is proverbially easier than to say how and in what manner it is manifested. In a collection the task of appraisement is not so difficult. Lord Houghton has said: "There is in truth no critic of poetry but the man who enjoys it, and the amount of gratification felt is the only just measure of criticism." By this test the present volume will, in the main, be judged. Still, there are characteristics of the author's work which I may be permitted to point out. In Mrs. MacLean's volume what quickly strikes one is not only the fact that the poems are all of a high order of merit, but that a large measure of art and instinct enters into the composition of each of them. As readily will it be recognized that they are the product of a cultivated intellect, a bright fancy, and a feeling heart. A rich spiritual life breathes throughout the work, and there are occasional manifestations of fervid impulse and ardent feeling. Yet there is no straining of expression in the poems nor is there any loose fluency of thought. Throughout there is sustained elevation and lofty purpose. Her least work, moreover, is worthy of her, because it is always honest work. With a quiet simplicity of style there is at the same time a fine command of language and an earnest beauty of thought. The grace and melody of the versification, indeed, few readers will fail to appreciate. Occasionally there are echoes of other poets—Jean Ingelow and Mrs. Barrett Browning, in the more subjective pieces, being oftenest suggested. But there is a voice as well as an echo—the voice of a poet in her own right. In an age so bustling and heedless as this, it were well sometimes to stop and listen to the voice In its fine spiritualizations we shall at least be soothed and may be bettered.

But I need not dwell on the vocation of poetry or on the excellence of the poems here introduced. The one is well known to the reader, the other may soon be. Happily there is promise that Canada will ere long be rich in her poets. They stand in the vanguard of the country's benefactors, and so should be cherished and encouraged. Of late our serial literature has given us more than blossomings. The present volume enshrines some of the maturer fruit. May it be its mission to nourish the poetic sentiment among us. May it do more to nourish in some degree the "heart of the nation", and, in the range of its influence, that of humanity.

CANADIAN MONTHLY OFFICE,
Toronto, December, 1880

The Coming of the Princess

Bird Song

An Idyl of the May

The Burial of the Scout

Questionings

Pansies

November Meteors

Pictures in the Fire

A Madrigal

The Ploughboy

The Voice of Many Waters

The Death of Autumn

A Farewell

The News Boy's Dream of the New Year

The Old Church on the Hill

The Burning of Chicago

The Legend of the New Year

By the Sea-Shore at Night

Resurgam

Written in a Cemetery

Marguerite

The Watch-Light

New Year, 1868

Thanksgiving

Miserere

Beyond

The Sabbath of the Woods

A Valentine

Snow-Drops

Easter Bells

In the Sierra Nevada

Summer Rain

A Baby's Death

Christmas

My Garden

River Song

The Return

Voices of Hope

In the Country

Science, the Iconoclast

What the Owl said to me

Our Volunteers

Night: A Phantasy

A Monody

Minnie

The Golden Wedding

Verses Written in Mary's Album

The Woods in June

The Isle of Sleep

The Battle Autumn of 1862

In War Time

Christmas Hymn

Te Deum Laudamus

A November Wood-Walk

Resignation

Euthanasia

Ballad of the Mad Ladye

The Coming of the King

With a Bunch of Spring Flowers

The Higher Law

May

Two Windows

The Meeting of Spirits

George Brown

Forgotten Songs

To the Daughter of the Author of "Violet Keith"

A Prelude, and a Bird's Song

An April Dawn

ENVOI

  A little bird woke singing in the night,
    Dreaming of coming day,
  And piped, for very fulness of delight,
    His little roundelay.

  Dreaming he heard the wood-lark's carol loud,
    Down calling to his mate,
  Like silver rain out of a golden cloud,
    At morning's radiant gate.

  And all for joy of his embowering woods,
    And dewy leaves he sung,—
  The summer sunshine, and the summer floods
    By forest flowers o'erhung.

  Thou shalt not hear those wild and sylvan notes
    When morn's full chorus pours
  Rejoicing from a thousand feathered throats,
    And the lark sings and soars,

  Oh poet of our glorious land so fair,
    Whose foot is at the door;
  Even so my song shall melt into the air,
    And die and be no more.

  But thou shalt live, part of the nation's life;
    The world shall hear thy voice
  Singing above the noise of war and strife,
    And therefore I rejoice!

THE COMING OF THE PRINCESS

I.

  Break dull November skies, and make
  Sunshine over wood and lake,
  And fill your cells of frosty air
  With thousand, thousand welcomes to the Princely pair!
  The land and the sea are alight for them;
  The wrinkled face of old Winter is bright for them;
  The honour and pride of a race
  Secure in their dwelling place,
  Steadfast and stern as the rocks that guard her,
  Tremble and thrill and leap in their veins,
  As the blood of one man through the beacon-lit border!
  Like a fire, like a flame,
  At the sound of her name,
  As the smoky-throated cannon mutter it,
  As the smiling lips of a nation utter it,
  And a hundred rock-lights write it in fire!
  Daughter of Empires, the Lady of Lorne,
  Back through the mists of dim centuries borne,
  None nobler, none gentler that brave name have worn;
  Shrilled by storm-bugles, and rolled by the seas,
    Louise!
  Our Princess, our Empress, our Lady of Lorne!

II.

  And the wild, white horses with flying manes
  Wind-tost, the riderless steeds of the sea.
  Neigh to her, call to her, dreadless and free,
  "Fear not to follow us; these thy domains;
  Welcome, welcome, our Lady and Queen!
  O Princess, oh daughter of kingliest sire!
  Under its frost girdle throbbing and keen,
  A new realm awaits thee, loyal and true!"
  And the round-cheeked Tritons, with fillets of blue
  Binding their sea-green and scintillant hair,
  Blow thee a welcome; their brawny arms bear
  Thy keel through the waves like a bird through the air.

III.

  Shoreward the shoal of mighty shoulders lean
  Through the long swell of waves,
  Reaching beyond the sunset and the hollow caves,
  And the ice-girdled peaks that hold serene
  Each its own star, far out at sea to mark
  Thy westward way, O Princess, through the dark.
  The rose-red sunset dies into the dusk,
  The silver dusk of the long twilight hour,
  And opal lights come out, and fiery gleams
  Of flame-red beacons, like the ash-gray husk
  Torn from some tropic blossom bursting into flower,
  Making the sea bloom red with ruddy beams.

IV

  Still nearer and nearer it comes, the swift sharp prow
  Of the ship above and the shadow ship below,
  With the mighty arms of the Titans under,
  All bowed one way like a field of wind-blown ears,
  Still nearer and nearer, and now
  touches the strand, and, lo,
  With the length of her bright hair backward flowing
  Round her head like an aureole,
  Like a candle flame in the wind's breath blowing,
  Stands she fair and still as a disembodied soul,
  With hands outstretched, and eyes that shine through tears
  And tremulous smiles
  When the trumpets, and the guns, and the great drums roll,
  And the long fiords and the forelands shake with the thunder
  Of the shout of welcome to the daughter of the Isles.

V

  Bring her, O people, on the shoulders of her vassals
  Throned like a queen to her palace on the height,
  Up the rocky steeps where the fir tree tassels
  Nod to her, and touch her with a subtle, vague delight,
  Like a whisper of home, like a greeting and a smile
  From the fir-tree walks and gardens, the wood-embowered castles
  In the north among the clansmen of Argyle.
  Now the sullen plunge of waves for many a mile
  Along the roaring Ottawa is heard,
  And the cry of some wood bird,
  Wild and sudden and sweet,
  Scared from its perch by the rush and trample of feet,
  And the red glare of the torches in the night.
  And now the long facade gay with many a twinkling light
  Reaches hands of welcome, and the bells peal, and the guns,
  And the hoarse blare of the trumpets, and the throbbing
    of the drums
  Fill the air like shaken music, and the very waves rejoice
  In the gladness, and the greeting, and the triumph of
    their voice.

VI.

  Under triumphal arches, blazoned with banners and scrolls,
  And the sound of a People's exulting, still gathering as it rolls,
  Enter the gates of the city, and take the waiting throne,
  And make the heart of a Nation, O Royal Pair, your own.
  Sons of the old race, we, and heirs of the old and the new;
  Our hands are bold and strong, and our hearts are faithful and true;
  Saxon and Norman and Celt one race of the mingled blood
  Who fought built cities and ships and stemmed the unknown flood
  In the grand historic days that made our England great
  When Britain's sons were steadfast to meet or to conquer fate
  Our sires were the minster builders who wrought themselves unknown
  The thought divine within them till it blossomed into stone
  Forgers of swords and of ploughshares reapers of men and of grain,
  Their bones and their names forgotten on many a battle plain
  For faith and love and loyalty were living and sacred things
  When our sires were those who wrought and yours were the leaders
      and kings.

VII

  For since the deeds that live in Arthur's rhyme
  Who left the stainless flower of knighthood for all time
  Down to our Blameless Prince wise gentle just
  Whom the world mourns not by your English dust
  More precious held more sacredly enshrined
  Than in each loyal breast of all mankind,
  Men bare the head in homage to the good,
  And she who wears the crown of womanhood,
  August, not less than that of Empress, reigns
  The crowned Victoria of the world's domains
  North, South, East, West, O Princess fair, behold
  In this new world, the daughter of the old,
  Where ribs of iron bar the Atlantic's breast,
  Where sunset mountains slope into the west,
  Unfathomed wildernesses, valleys sweet,
  And tawny stubble lands of corn and wheat,
  And all the hills and lakes and forests dun,
  Between the rising and the setting sun;
  Where rolling rivers run with sands of gold,
  And the locked treasures of the mine unfold
  Undreamed of riches, and the hearts of men,
  Held close to nature, have grown pure again.
  Like that exalted Pair, beloved, revered,
  By princely grace, and truth and love endeared,
  Here fix your empire in the growing West,
  And build your throne in each Canadian breast,
  Till West and East strike hands across the main,
  Knit by a stronger, more enduring chain,
  And our vast Empire become one again.

BIRD SONG.

          Art thou not sweet,
  Oh world, and glad to the inmost heart of thee!
      All creatures rejoice
      With one rapturous voice.
    As I, with the passionate beat
    Of my over-full heart feel thee sweet,
  And all things that live, and are part of thee!

          Light, light as a cloud
  Swimming, and trailing its shadow under me
      I float in the deep
      As a bird-dream in sleep,
    And hear the wind murmuring loud,
    Far down, where the tree-tops are bowed,—
  And I see where the secret place of the thunders be

          Oh! the sky free and wide,
  With all the cloud-banners flung out in it
      Its singing wind blows
      As a grand river flows,
    And I swim down its rhythmical tide,
    And still the horizon spreads wide,
  With the birds' and the poets' songs like a shout in it!

          Oh life, thou art sweet
  Sweet—sweet to the inmost heart of thee!
      I drink with my eyes
      Thy limitless skies,
    And I feel with the rapturous beat
    Of my wings thou art sweet—
  And I,—I am alive, and a part of thee!

AN IDYL OF THE MAY.

  In the beautiful May weather,
      Lapsing soon into June;
    On a golden, golden day
    Of the green and golden May,
      When our hearts were beating tune
      To the coming feet of June,
  Walked we in the woods together.

    Silver fine
      Gleamed the ash buds through the darkness
        of the pine,
  And the waters of the stream
  Glance and gleam,
  Like a silver-footed dream—
    Beckoning, calling,
    Flashing, falling,
  Into shadows dun and brown
    Slipping down,
  Calling still—Oh hear! Oh follow!
    Follow—follow!
  Down through glen and ferny hollow,
  Lit with patches of the sky,
  Shining through the trees so high,
  Hand in hand we went together,
  In the golden, golden weather
      Of the May;
  While the fleet wing of the swallow
  Flashing by, called—follow—follow!
    And we followed through the day:
      Speaking low—
  Speaking often not at all
  To the brooklet's crystal call,
    With our lingering feet and slow—
  Slow, and pausing here and there
    For a flower, or a fern,
  For the lovely maiden-hair;
  Hearing voices in the air,
    Calling faintly down the burn.

  Still the streamlet slid away,
    Singing, smiling, dimpling down
    To a mossy nook and brown,
  Under bending boughs of May;
  Where the nodding wind-flower grows,
    And the coolwort's lovely pink,
    Brooding o'er the brooklet's brink
  Dips and blushes like a rose.

  And the faint smell of the mould.
    Sweeter than the musky scent
  Of the garden's manifold
    Perfumes into perfect blent.
  Lights and sounds and odours stole,
    In the golden, golden weather—
  Heart and thought, and life and soul,
      Stole away,
    In that merry, merry May,
  Wandering down the burn together.

  Ah Valentine—my Valentine!
  Heard I, with my hand in thine,
  Grave and low, and sweet and slow,
  As the wood bird over head,
  Brooding notes, half sung half said,—
  "In the world so bleak and wide,
    Hearts make Edens of their own;
  Wilt thou linger by my side,—
    Wilt thou live for me alone,
  Making bright the winter weather,
    Thou and I and love together?"

  "Yea," I said, "for thee alone,"—
    Shading eyes lest they confess
    Too much their own happiness,
  With the happy tears o'erflown.

  Gravely thou—"The world is not
    Like this ferny hollow—
  Through a rougher, thornier lot
    Wilt thou bravely follow?"
  Still the brook, with softer flow,
    Called, "Oh hear! Oh follow!"
  "Aye," I said, with bated breath,
  "Where thou goest, I will go;
    Holding still thy stronger hand,
    Through the dreariest desert land,
      True, till death."

  Silence fell between us two,
  Noiseless as the silver dew;
  Hearts that had no need of speech
  In the silence spoke to each;
  And along the sapphire blue,
  Shot with shafts of sunset through,
  Fell a voice, a bodiless breath—
    "True, till death"

  Through a mist of smiles and tears,
    Doubts and fears, and toils and dreams,
    Oh! how long ago it seems,
  Looking back across the year
  Silver threads are in my hair
    And the sunset shadows slope
    Back along the hills of hope
  That before us shone so fair.

  Ah! for us the merry May
    Comes no more with golden weather;
  Fields, and woods, and sunshine gay,
    Purple skies, and purple heather.
  We have had our holyday,
  And I sit with folded hands,
    In the twilight looking back
    Over life's uneven track—
  Thorny wilds, and desert sands.

  Weary heart, unwearied faith,
  In the twilight softly saith—
  "We have had our golden weather—
   We have walked through life together,
      True, till death!"

THE BURIAL OF THE SCOUT.

          O not with arms reversed,
      And the slow beating of the muffled drum,
      And funeral marches, bring our hero home
  These stormy woods where his young heart was nursed
          Ring with a trumpet burst
  Of jubilant music, as if he who lies
      With shrouded face, and lips all white and dumb
  Were a crowned conqueror entering paradise,—
      This is his welcome home!

  Along the reedy marge of the dim lake,
      I hear the gathering horsemen of the North,
  The cavalry of night and tempest wake,—
      Blowing keen bugles as they issue forth,
  To guard his homeward march in frost and cold,
          A thousand spearmen bold!

          And the deep-bosomed woods,
  With their dishevelled locks all wildly spread,
  Stretch ghostly arms to clasp the immortal dead,
          Back to their solitudes
  While through their rocking branches overhead,
      And all their shuddering pulses underground
  shiver runs, as if a voice had said—
       And every farthest leaf had felt the wound—
            He comes—but he is dead!

            The dainty-fingered May
  with gentle hand shall fold and put away
       The snow-white curtains of his winter tent,
  and spread above him her green coverlet,
       'Broidered with daisies, sweet to sight and scent
  and Summer, from her outposts in the hills,
       Under the boughs with heavy night-dews wet,
  shall place her gold and purple sentinels,
       And in the populous woods sound reveille,
  calling from field and fen her sweet deserters back—
       But he,—no long roll of the impatient drum,
  for battle trumpet eager for the fray,
       From the far shores of blue Lake Erie blown,
  shall rouse the soldier's last long bivouac.

QUESTIONINGS.

  I touch but the things which are near;
    The heavens are too high for my reach:
      In shadow and symbol and creed,
      I discern not the soul from the deed,
    Nor the thought hidden under, from speech;
  And the thing which I know not I fear.

  I dare not despair nor despond,
    Though I grope in the dark for the dawn:
      Birth and laughter, and bubbles of breath,
      And tears, and the blank void of death,
    Round each its penumbra is drawn,—
  I touch them,—I see not beyond.

  What voice speaking solemn and slow,
    Before the beginning for me,
      From the mouth of the primal First Cause,
      Shall teach me the thing that I was,
    Shall point out the thing I shall be,
  And show me the path that I go?

  Were there any that missed me, or sought,
    In the cycles and centuries fled.
      Ere my soul had a place among men?—
      Even so, unremembered again
    I shall lie in the dust with the dead,
  And my name shall be heard not, nor thought.

  Yea rather,—from out the abyss,
    Where the stars sit in silence and light,
      When the ashes and dust of our world
      Are like leaves in their faces up-whirled,—
    What orb shall look down through the night,
  And take note of the quenching of this?

  Yea, beyond—in the heavens of space
    Where Jehovah sits, absolute Lord,
      Who made out of nothing the whole
      Round world, and man's sentient soul—
    Will He crush, like a creature abhorred,
  What He fashioned with infinite grace

  In His own awful image, and made
    Quick with the flame of His breath,—
      Which He saw and behold it was good?—
      Ah man! thou hast waded through blood
    And crime down to darkness and death,
  Since thou stood'st before Him unafraid.

  My life falls away like a flower
    Day by day,—dispersed of the wind
      Its vague perfume, nor taketh it root,
      Ripening seeds for the sower, or fruit
    To make me at one with my kind,
  And give me my work, and my hour

  No creed for my hunger sufficed,
    Though I clung to them, each after other,
      They slipped from my passionate hold,—
      The prophets, the martyrs of old,—
    Thy pitying face, Mary Mother,—
  Thy thorn-circled forehead, O Christ!

  Pilgrim sandalled, the deserts have known
    The track of my wandering feet,
      Where dead saints and martyrs have trod,
      To search for the pure faith of God,
    Making life with its bitterness sweet,
  And death the white gate to a throne.

  O Thou, who the wine-press hast trod,
    O sorrowful—stricken—betrayed,—
      Thy cross o'er my spirit prevails;
      In Thy hands with the print of the nails,
    My life with its burdens is laid,—
  O Christ—Thou art sole—Thou art God!

PANSIES.

  When the earliest south winds softly blow
  Over the brown earth, and the waning snow
  In the last days of the discrowned March,—
  Before the silver tassels of the larch,
  Or any tiniest bud or blade is seen;
  Or in the woods the faintest kindling green,
    And all the earth is veiled in azure mist,
  Waiting the far-off kisses of the sun,—
  They lift their bright heads shyly one by one.
    And offer each, in cups of amethyst,
  Drops of the honey wine of fairy land,—
  A brimming beaker poised in either hand
  Fit for the revels of King Oberon,
  With all his royal gold and purple on:
  Children of pensive thought and airy fancies,
  Sweeter than any poet's sweetest stanzas,
    Though to the sound of eloquent music told,
      Or by the lips of beauty breathed or sung:
  They thrill us with their backward-looking glances,
    They bring us to the land that ne'er grows old,—
      They mind us of the days when life was young
  Nor time had stolen the fire from youth's romances,
        Dear English pansies!

  While still the hyacinth sleeps on securely,
  And every lily leaf is folded purely,
    Nor any purple crocus hath arisen;
  Nor any tulip raised its slender stem,
    And burst the earth-walls of its winter prison,
  And donned its gold and jewelled diadem;
  Nor by the brookside in the mossy hollow,
  That calls to every truant foot to follow,
    The cowslip yet hath hung its golden ball,—
  In the wild and treacherous March weather,
  The pansy and the sunshine come together,
    The sweetest flower of all!
    The sweetest flower that blows;
    Sweeter than any rose,
  Or that shy blossom opening in the night,
  Its waxen vase of aromatic light—
  A sleepy incense to the winking stars;
    Nor yet in summer heats,
    That crisp the city streets,—
  Where the spiked mullein grows beside the bars
  In country places, and the ox-eyed daisy
  Blooms in the meadow grass, and brooks are lazy,
  And scarcely murmur in the twinkling heat;
  When sound of babbling water is so sweet,
    Blue asters, and the purple orchis tall,
  Bend o'er the wimpling wave together;—
  The pansy blooms through all the summer weather,
    The sweetest flower of all!

    The sweetest flower that blows!
  When all the rest are scattered and departed,
  The symbol of the brave and faithful-hearted,
    Her bright corolla glows.
  When leaves hang pendant on their withered stalks,
  Through all the half-deserted garden walks;
  And through long autumn nights,
  The merry dancers scale the northern heights,
  And tiny crystal points of frost-white fire
  Make brightly scintillant each blade and spire,
    Still under shade of shelt'ring wall,
  Or under winter's shroud of snows,
  Undimmed, the faithful pansy blows,
    The sweetest flower of all!

NOVEMBER METEORS.

  Out of the dread eternities,
    The vast abyss of night,
  A glorious pageant rose and shone,
    And passed from human sight.
  We saw the glittering cavalcade,
    And heard inwove through all,
  Faint and afar from star to star,
    The sliding music fall.

  With banners and with torches,
    And hoofs of glancing flame,
  With helm and sword and pennon bright
    The long procession came.
  And all the starry spaces,
    Height above height outshone,
  And the bickering clang of their armour rang
    Down to the farthest zone.

  As if some grand cathedral,
    With towers of malachite,
  And walls of more than crystal clear,
    Rose out of the solid light,
  And under its frowning gateway,
    Each morioned warrior stept,
  And in radiant files down the ringing aisles,
    The martial pageant swept.

  From out the oriel windows,
    From vault, and spire, and dome,
  And sparkling up from base to cope,
    The light and glory clomb.
  They knelt before the altar,
    Each mailed and visored knight,
  And the censers swung as a voice outrung,—
    'Now God defend the right'!

  On casque, and brand, and corselet
    Fell the red light of Mars,
  As forth from the minster gates they passed
    To the battle of the stars.
  Across moon-lighted depths of space,
    And breadths of purple seas,
  Their flying squadrons sailed in fleets,
    Of fiery argosies:

  Down lengths of shining rivers,
    Past golden-sanded bars,
  And nebulous isles of amethyst,
    They dropt like falling stars:
  Till on a scarped and wrinkled coast,
    Washed by dark waves below,
  They came upon the glittering tents—
    The city of the foe.

  Then rushed they to the battle;
    Their bright hair blazed behind,
  As deadlier than the bolt they fell,
    And swifter than the wind.
  And all the stellar continents,
    With that fierce hail thick sown,
  Recoiled with fear, from sphere to sphere
    To Saturn's ancient throne.

  The blind old king, in ermine wrapt.
    And immemorial cold,
  Awoke, and raised his aged hands,
    And shook his rings of gold.
  Down toppled plume and pennon bright,
    In endless ruin hurled,
  Their blades of light struck fire from night—
    Their splendours lit the world!

  And rolling down the hollow spheres,
    The mighty chords, the seven,
  Clanged on from orb to orb, and smote
    Orion in mid-heaven.
  Along the ground the white tents lay;
    And faint along the fields.
  The foe's swart hosts, like glimmering ghosts,
    Followed his chariot wheels.

  With banners and with torches,
    And armour all aflame,
  The victors and the vanquished went,
    Departing as they came;
  With here and there a rocket sent
    Up from some lonely barque:
  Into the vast abysm they passed,—
    Into the final dark.

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