THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.

259

“Along, along, till all is past

That once they called their own;

Till bows the pride of strength at last,

And knights, like women, moan.

Pausing upon the green hillside,

That soon their city’s tower will hide, They lean upon their spears;

And hands that late with blood were dyed Are now wash’d white with tears.

“Another look, from brimming eyes,

Along the glorious plain;

Elsewhere may spread as lovely skies, Elsewhere their monarch reign;

But nevermore in that bright land,

With all his chivalry at hand,

Now dead or far departed!—

And from the hillside moves the band, The bravest broken-hearted.”