"When the fear
Of the spear
Makes way for its blow;
And the faithless
Lie breathless
The horse-hoofs below.
"The wave-crest,
Round the breast,
Tosses sabres all red;
But under,
Its thunder
Is dumb to the dead.
"They drop
From the top
To the sear heap below;
And deeper,
Down steeper,
The infidels go.
"But bright
Is the light
On the true-hearted breaking;
Rapturous faces,
Bent for embraces,
Wait on his waking.
"And he hears
In his ears
The voice of the river,
Like a maiden,
Love-laden,
Go wandering ever.
"Oh! the wine
Of the vine
May lead to the gates;
But the rattle
Of battle
Wakes the angel who waits.
"To the lord
Of the sword
Open it must;
The drinker,
The thinker,
Sits in the dust.
"He dreams
Of the gleams
Of their garments of white:
He misses
Their kisses,
The maidens of light.
"They long
For the strong,
Who has burst through alarms,
Up, by the labour
Of stirrup and sabre,
Up to their arms.
"Oh! the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost;
But the wine of the fight is the joy of a host."