O long shall the lily,[5] the ivy, and bay,
Frame a wreath round the hero, the pride of his day;
And now bursting forth from cearment and gloom,
Once more shall the victor arise from his tomb.
He comes, the proud chieftain, to Cornwall's steep coast,
Sir Trystan the valiant, high chivalry's boast;
The friend of Prince Arthur descended in line
From heroes whose glory 'tis his to enshrine:
Still nobly look up to their banner so proud,
The forfeit, dishonour, disgrace, and the shroud!