Of a chief return’d from victory.
There were banners to the winds unroll’d,
With haughty words on each blazon’d fold;
High battle-names, which had rung of yore
When lances clash’d on the Syrian shore.
Borne from their dwellings, green and lone,
There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown;
And wheels that crush’d as they swept along;—
Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng?
I saw where a bright procession pass’d