*Heard ye that lofty pealing sound* *⁠Upon the balmy air,* *The exulting shout that best proclaims* *⁠The deeds which heroes dare?* *In triumph blow their trumpets proud,* *⁠The clouds repeat their voice;* *Go, greet the laurell’d victors home,* *⁠And bid our realms rejoice.* *Let poets tune their golden harps,* *⁠Let maidens wear their smile,* *And young and old their cares lay by,* *⁠And cease to mourn awhile.* *What! hear’st thou not their joyous din?* *⁠Behold, above the vale,* *Their haughty plumes and ensigns red* *⁠Are fluttering in the gale;*
*And helmets cleft, and canvas torn,* *⁠Proclaim the fighting done;* *And neighing steeds, and bloody spears,* *⁠Announce the battle won.* *Alas! the vision mocks my sight;* *⁠I see no gallant throng,* *No trophies meet my longing eyes;* *⁠Bid cease the joyous song.* *That recreant slave is not my lord;* *⁠Ne’er thus the brave return;* *Go, bid the city-gates be barr’d,* *⁠And leave me lone to mourn.* *I know him not, I never knew* *⁠A low, ignoble love;* *My warrior sleeps upon the moor,* *⁠His soul hath soar’d above.* *Upon the battle-field he lies,* *⁠His garments stain’d with gore;* *With sword in hand prepared he sleeps* *⁠To fight the battle o’er.* *His shiver’d shield, his broken spear,* *⁠Around him scatter’d lie;* *The iron-breasted Moslems shook* *⁠To see my hero die.* *Where helmets rang, where sabres smote,* *⁠He found his gory bed;* *Join, mourners, join, and loudly raise* *⁠The requiem of the dead.* *Expel yon vile impostor hence;* *⁠I will not trust his tale;* *Our warriors on the crimson field* *⁠Their chieftain’s loss bewail.*


*The mountain torrent rushing down*

Can ne’er its course retrace,

And souls that speed on glory’s path

Must ever onward press:

Aye, onward press — to bleed and die,

Triumphant still in death:

Imposter, hence! in other lands

Go draw thy coward breath.

May 2020 update: in my original post, I had only included the last 2 paragraphs of The Warrior Returns.