To the anxious eyes of that pale band,
With torches wavering in every hand,
For they dread each moment the shout of war
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar.
There is no plumed head o’er the bier to bend,
No brother of battle, no princely friend:
No sound comes back, like the sounds of yore,
Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor;
By the red fountain the valiant lie,
The flower of Provençal chivalry;