I.

The trumpet calls from War's malign
And clanging shores to peace pristiné;
Where, bathed in sun and wind and shower,
Your young life fruited to this hour
When grapes are crushed for no sweet wine.
Dear lad! that Fate should so design
That here, amid our fern and pine,
Should burst on startled palm and flower
The trumpet calls.
But still the quest is held divine;
Not less than when knights watched the shrine,
Or bowmen held the leaguered tower;
And thrall to its uplifting power,
You answer wordless fears of mine,
“The trumpet calls!”