Like a cloud of morn they bore,
Or rosy wave on grassy shore,
That, breaking, dashed the silver spray
Thay met—the Lily-lances play;
In crested legends on that came
Against them—snow & burning flame
Mixing with the crimson flood
Of roses & their fragrant blood,
Whereof the grass undue was rife,
As surged & rolled the floral strife,
With checquered fortune o’er the green,
Until at last up-rose the Queen:
And caused the zephyr horns to blow
A truce, the victor’s crown to show.
But like a garland on the ground
Of roses & of lilies found,
So linked & locked in strife they lay
Each silver stem & clinging spray,