Heard ye that lofty pealing sound
Upon the balmy air,
The exulting shout that best proclaims
The deeds which heroes dare?
In triumph blow their trumpets proud,
The clouds repeat their voice;
Go, greet the laurell'd victors home,
And bid our realms rejoice.
Let poets tune their golden harps,
Let maidens wear their smile,
And young and old their cares lay by,
And cease to mourn awhile.
What! hear'st thou not their joyous din?
Behold, above the vale,
Their haughty plumes and ensigns red
Are fluttering in the gale;
And helmets cleft, and canvas torn,
Proclaim the fighting done;
And neighing steeds, and bloody spears,
Announce the battle won.
Alas! the vision mocks my sight;
I see no gallant throng,
No trophies meet my longing eyes;
Bid cease the joyous song.
That recreant slave is not my lord;
Ne'er thus the brave return;
Go, bid the city-gates be barr'd,
And leave me lone to mourn.
I know him not, I never knew
A low, ignoble love;
My warrior sleeps upon the moor,
His soul hath soar'd above.
Upon the battle-field he lies,
His garments stain'd with gore;
With sword in hand prepared he sleeps
To fight the battle o'er.
His shiver'd shield, his broken spear,
Around him scatter'd lie;
The iron-breasted Moslems shook
To see my hero die.
Where helmets rang, where sabres smote,
He found his gory bed;
Join, mourners, join, and loudly raise
The requiem of the dead.
Expel yon vile impostor hence;
I will not trust his tale;
Our warriors on the crimson field
Their chieftain's loss bewail.
The mountain-torrent rushing down
Can ne'er its course retrace,
And souls that speed on glory's path
Must ever onward press:
Aye, onward press—to bleed and die,
Triumphant still in death;
Impostor, hence! in other lands
Go draw thy coward breath.