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.
***
Lord Alfred Tennyson
More poems by Baron Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Tagged 19, 19thcentury, about19century, about19thcentury, aboutclassicalpoetry, aboutclassics, aboutengland, aboutenglishpoems, aboutenglishpoets, aboutlaureate, aboutlife, aboutlyricism, aboutmeaningoflife, aboutromantic, aboutromantism, aboutvictorianpoetry, britishempire, classical, classicalpoetry, empire, Englishpoetry, Keats, lyric, poetlaureate, romantic, romantism, Tennyson, Victorian, Victorianpoetry
