And stooping that tall head
Black-ruffled like the eagle’s crest,
He passed up to the highest place of all.
IV
Ah, who shall tell the tale of those wild years,
Of pride and grief, of blood and tears?
The horror and the splendour and the sorrow,
The marching-songs of midnight, the sick fears
Of every fateful morrow?
Sometimes a waft of song, a random strain,