Golding

Probable, most probable! The armourers were at work; yet, ’tis most sad To be pent up within these walled towns, And fed on horse-flesh, till the leprosy Do rot us out. Oh! for that glorious time When, led by Douglas ’gainst Osmyn the Moor, I first adventured in the Holy Land: Then I was young, and burn’d for scenes of arms, And deem’d the soldier’s life a pleasant pastime For gallant, generous hearts that loved adventure, Its darker parts conceal’d in the back-ground. Then at our tinel we had spice and wine, Trumpets and timbrels, while the choicest flowers Of chivalry sat round the warrior’s banquet; Graced with those dark-eyed dames, nearer allied To Sol than those our frigid climes produce; Beautiful, mellow, yielding as their fruit, With hearts as cheerful as their cloudless skies; Yes! Aubery, then the poorest sentinel Fed like a prince, glutting the raven War With choicest cookery.