  OH, prayers and sympathetic tears For each and every ill-starred knight For whom ring no victorious cheers; For those who, early in the fight, Saw daylight turning into night And yielded up to Fate their spears. The dented shield, the pierced cuirass, Sad story is it that they tell Of brave young knights whose hopes, alas! Bore meagre fruit; who fighting fell Before the foe they could not quell; Who found no wine within the glass. For some there are but ill-equipped To face the world; some weak of will And some faint-hearted, feeble-lipped, Fit but the lowest posts to fill, Some shivering with the coward’s chill And of the armor “courage” stripped. Oh, you ’gainst whom the fates are set, E’en though you’ve failed on every field To gain fair honor’s banneret, Let high above be held each shield, Each one with purpose strong annealed, And all shall win a victory yet. |
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