The soldier month, the bulwark of the year, That never more shall hear such victories told; He stands apparent with his heaven-high spear, And helmeted of grand Etruscan gold. Our harvest is the bounty he has won, The loot his fiery temper takes by strength. Oh! Paladin of the Imperial sun! Oh! crown of all the seasons come at length! This is sheer manhood; this is Charlemagne, When he with his wide host came conquering home From vengeance under Roncesvalles taen. Or when his bramble beard flaked red with foam Of bivouac wine-cups on the Lombard plain, What time he swept to grasp the world at Rome.
Posted on: Tue, 05 Nov 2013 20:31:00 +0000
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