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 They knew not fear that to the foeman yields, They were not weak, as one who vainly wields A futile weapon, yet the sad scrolls tell How on the hard-fought field they always fell.

It was a secret music that they heard, A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; And that which pierced the heart was but a word, Though the white breast was red-lipped where the sword Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase. Ah, then by some strange troubling doubt were stirred, And died for hearing what no foeman heard.

They went forth to battle but they always fell; Their might was not the might of lifted spears; Over the battle-clamor came a spell Of troubling music, and they fought not well. Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears; Their names are old sad stories in men's ears; Yet they will scatter the red hordes of Hell, Who went to battle forth and always fell.

HE WHOM A DREAM HATH POSSESSED

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting, For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing of words he scorns; Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knightly shouting,