Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
More verses by Alfred Lord Tennyson
- The Death Of The Old Year
- The Skipping-Rope
- Minnie And Winnie
- The Princess: A Medley: Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal
- To Edward Lear: On His Travels In Greece