Such soldier’s gear becomes them best—
They love their old defence to feel.
“’Tis well! Now buckle to my waist
My well-tried gleaming blade of Spain
My old blood leaps in joyful haste
To feel it on my thigh again.
And here this pendent loop upon,
Suspend my father’s dagger bright;
My spurs of gold, too, buckle on—
Or Seward dies not like a knight.”