  ‘Before each van Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms From either end of Heaven the welkin burns.’ Away! away! away! away! Ye have not kept your secret well, I will abide that other day, Those other lands ye tell. Has time no leisure left for these, The acts that ye rehearse? Is not eternity a lease For better deeds than verse? ’Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead, To know them still alive, But sweeter if we earn their bread, And in us they survive. Our life should feed the springs of fame With a perennial wave, As ocean feeds the babbling founts Which find in it their grave. Ye skies drop gently round my breast, And be my corslet 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; My bright spears fixÈd are. 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 despair, For I will be her champion new, Her fame I will repair. |
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