Full-garrisoned by feudal myrmidons,
Might strike to Roland's heart the chill of doubt.
Four-square to the four winds the fortress stands,
Pinnacled high upon a frowning rock.
It hath survived the many-centuried shock
Of elements, the assault of myriad hands,
And to the attack will you now lead your bands,
Whose rage crag-crowning battlements seem to mock?
True from those battlements they've hung, in scorn,
Your herald, whose torn trappings wildly wave