Anonymous

The Aisle of Tombs

THE QUIET and the chillness
  Of the aisle of tombs;
The shadow and the stillness
  A rosy light illumes:
    Like the memory of the past,
  On the carvéd arms delaying,
On the marble pall
  O’er the blood-red scutcheon playing
With a crimson fall,
    Into sudden sunshine cast
        Are the ancient warriors,
        The warriors of olden time.

So with kindled heart we love them,
  Dwelling on their fame;
So doth memory fling above them	
  Its shadow of a name,
    Noblest shadow flung on earth:
We remember many a story
  Of the old chivalric day,
When the red-cross, like a glory,
  Shone above the fray;
    ’T was a glorious age gave birth
        To the ancient warriors,
        The warriors of olden time.

Though the sword no more be trusted
  As it was of old,
Though the shining spear be rusted
  And the right hand cold,
    They have left their fame behind;
Still a spirit from their slumbers
  Rises true and brave,
Asks the minstrel for his numbers,
  Music from their grave:
    Noble, gentle, valiant, kind,
        Were the ancient warriors,
        The warriors of olden time.

All their meaner part hath perished,
  In the earth at rest;
And the present hour hath cherished
  What of them was best.
    What a knight should be we keep.
For the present doth inherit
  All the glories of the past;
We retain what was its spirit,
  While its dust to dust is cast.
    All good angels guard the sleep
        Of the ancient warriors,
        The warriors of olden time.