Somewhere the silver trumpets were acry,—
Sweet, high, oh, high and sweet!
What voice could summon so but the soul’s paraclete?
Whom should such voices call but me, to dare and die?
O ye asleep here in the eyrie town,
Ye mothers, babes, and maids, and aged men,
The plain is full of foemen! Turn again—
Sleep sound, or waken half
Only to hear our happy bugles laugh
Lovely defiance down,