ONE foot in the stirrup, one hand on the mane, One toss of white plumes on the air; Then firm in the saddle, and loosened the rein; And the sword-blade gleams bare! A white face stares up from the dark frozen ground; The prowler will shadow it soon: The dead and the dying lie writhen around, Cold and bright shines the moon! There's laurels and gold for the living and proud: But the ice-wreath of Fame for the slain; Only Love turns away from the revelling crowd To her own on the plain! |