And banners, o’er his glorious head,
Were drooping heavily.
And feeble grew the conquering hand,
And cold the valiant breast;
He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.
What said the Ruler of the field?
—His voice is faint and low;
The breeze that creeps o’er his lance and shield
Hath louder accents now.