Call back the gorgeous past!The lists are set, the trumpets sound,Bright eyes, sweet judges, throned around;And stately on the glittering groundThe old chivalric life!"Forward!" The signal word is given;Beneath the shock the greensward shakes;The lusty cheer, the gleaming spear,The snow-plume's falling flakes,The fiery joy of strife!Thus, when, from out a changeful heavenO'er waves in eddying tumult drivenA stormy smile is cast,Alike the gladsome anger takesThe sunshine and the blast!Who is the victor of the day?Thou of the delicate form, and golden hair,And manhood glorious in its midst of May;Thou who upon thy shield of argent bearestThe bold device, "The loftiest is the fairest!"As bending low thy stainless crest,"The vestal throned by the west"Accords the old Provençal crownWhich blends her own with thy renown;Arcadian Sidney, nursling of the muse,Flower of fair chivalry, whose bloom was fedWith daintiest Castaly's most silver dews,Alas! how soon thy amaranth leaves were shed;Born, what the Ausonian minstreldream'd to be,Time's knightly epic pass'd from earth with thee!Edward Bulwer Lytton
Call back the gorgeous past!The lists are set, the trumpets sound,Bright eyes, sweet judges, throned around;And stately on the glittering groundThe old chivalric life!"Forward!" The signal word is given;Beneath the shock the greensward shakes;The lusty cheer, the gleaming spear,The snow-plume's falling flakes,The fiery joy of strife!Thus, when, from out a changeful heavenO'er waves in eddying tumult drivenA stormy smile is cast,Alike the gladsome anger takesThe sunshine and the blast!Who is the victor of the day?Thou of the delicate form, and golden hair,And manhood glorious in its midst of May;Thou who upon thy shield of argent bearestThe bold device, "The loftiest is the fairest!"As bending low thy stainless crest,"The vestal throned by the west"Accords the old Provençal crownWhich blends her own with thy renown;Arcadian Sidney, nursling of the muse,Flower of fair chivalry, whose bloom was fedWith daintiest Castaly's most silver dews,Alas! how soon thy amaranth leaves were shed;Born, what the Ausonian minstreldream'd to be,Time's knightly epic pass'd from earth with thee!
Edward Bulwer Lytton
"The knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;His soul is with the saints, I trust."
"The knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;His soul is with the saints, I trust."
[1]From "The Cid Campeador," by H. Butler Clarke, by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons.
[1]From "The Cid Campeador," by H. Butler Clarke, by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons.
[2]Unfortunately, this blade has been lost; but there is still preserved another sword of Bayard's. It bears the two legends "Soli Deo Gloria" and "Vincere aut Mors."
[2]Unfortunately, this blade has been lost; but there is still preserved another sword of Bayard's. It bears the two legends "Soli Deo Gloria" and "Vincere aut Mors."