Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/306



banners rustle in the breeze, The angry trumpets swell; They call me, lady, from thy arms, They bid me sigh farewell!

They call me to a heathen land, To quell a heathen foe; To leave love's blandishments, and court Bude dangers, strife, and wo.

Yet deem not, lady, though afar It be my hap to roam, That this right loyal heart can stray From love, from thee, and home.

No! in the tumult of the fight, Midst Salem's chivalrie, The thought that arms this hand with death Shall be the thought of thee.