THE KNIGHT'S REQUIEM by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

THEY have waked the knight so meikle of might,
They have cased his corpse in oak;
There was not an eye that then was dry,
There was not a tongue that spoke.
The stout and the true lay stretched in view,
Pale and cold as the marble stone;
And the voice was still that like trumpet shrill,
Had to glory led them on;
And the deadly hand whose battle brand
Mowed down the reeling foe,
Was laid at rest on the manly breast,
That never more mought glow.
With book, and bell, and waxen light,
The mass for the dead is sung;
Thorough the night in the turret's height,
The great church-bells are rung.
Oh wo! oh wo! for those that go
From light of life away,
Whose limbs may rest with worms unblest,
In the damp and silent clay!

With a heavy cheer they upraised his bier,
Naker and drum did roll;
The trumpets blew a last adieu
To the good knight's martial soul.
With measured tread thro' the aisle they sped,
Bearing the dead knight on,
And before the shrine of St. James the divine,
They covered his corpse with stone:
'Twas fearful to see the strong agony
Of men who had seldom wept,
And to hear the deep groan of each mail-clad one,
As the lid on the coffin swept.

With many a groan, they placed that stone
O'er the heart of the good and brave,
And many a look the tall knights took
Of their brother soldier's grave.
Where banners stream and corslets gleam
In fields besprent with gore,
That brother's hand and shearing brand
In the van should wave no more:
The clarions call on one and all
To arm and fight amain,
Would never see, in chivalry,
Their brother's make again!

With book, and bell, and waxen light,
The mass for the dead is sung,
And thorough the night in the turret's height,
The great church-bells are rung.
Oh wo! oh wo! for those that go
From the light of life away,
Whose limbs may rest with worms unblest,
In the damp and silent clay!

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