No loving letters has he penned While far away where battles rage: Though life and love be near their end. The vassal has no squire to send, The vassal’s sweetheart has no page.
To-day the duke returns in state, With him my love, a soldier tried, No longer lowly in estate. I lift my head, bowed down of late, And my bliss blossoms into pride.
The duke brings home triumphantly, Worn and soiled, the flag that’s floated O’er his camp. Come all with me To the old gate, the troops to see, And the prince and my betrothèd.
To see the horse, with trappings gay Caparisoned, his lord to bear, Advance, retreat, with conscious neigh, Tossing his head till its array Of plumes like flaming torches flare.
To see—O sisters, why so slow?— The drums that lead my hero on, The drums that in the sunlight glow, That throb beneath his tireless blow Till the heart throbs in unison.
And, best of all, to see his face! I worked his cloak with broidery fair: He’ll look like one of princely race, And with a more than princely grace His plumèd helm he’ll wear.
The impious Egyptian bent Close above me last night, hissing, (God help us!) “You are confident! Drums will sound till the air is rent, But one drummer will be missing.”
But I hope still, so much I’ve prayed! Though, with her hand outstretched to where Among the tombs her home she made, Her snake’s eyes gleaming through the shade, She said: “We’ll meet to-morrow there.”
No more dark fancies! Hear how loud The drums beat! Sisters, let us go. See how the ladies fair and proud The purple-hung pavilions crowd, Where banners float and flowers glow.
The escort comes, by pikemen led, Then, not to-day in armor tried, In gleaming silken robes instead, And velvet-capped each haughty head, The barons, under flags flung wide.