Borne by fierce Euroclydon,
With its fringes dyed vermilion
In the blazing noonday sun ?
Nay, not these ? what then hath shaken
Such a sand-shower o'er the plain ?
Flying steeds that do not slacken,
Steeds, whose riders draw not rein !
He that foremost sharply spurreth
Wears a front that hero fits ;
Some great deed his spirit stirreth,
Triumph on his forehead sits !
On his arm a maid he stayeth,
And her eye is calm and clear,
And her queenly brow betrayeth
Not a doubt, and not a fear.
At his belt a sword is gleaming,
Scarlet stains his vesture mar,
Tides from many a gash are streaming,
Purple wounds his visage scar.
Close and sharp hath been the fighting ;