OH, prayers and sympathetic tears
For each and every ill-starred knight
For whom ring no victorious cheers;
For those who, early in the fight,
Saw daylight turning into night
And yielded up to Fate their spears.
The dented shield, the pierced cuirass,
Sad story is it that they tell
Of brave young knights whose hopes, alas!
Bore meagre fruit; who fighting fell
Before the foe they could not quell;
Who found no wine within the glass.
For some there are but ill-equipped
To face the world; some weak of will
And some faint-hearted, feeble-lipped,
Fit but the lowest posts to fill,
Some shivering with the coward’s chill
And of the armor “courage” stripped.