Triumph

Here lays master Heraclius,

Here he lays in a soldier’s bed,

Awake he lays, master Heraclius,

Sleep as mistress is banished.

Of a strange Heraclius he dreams,

(or is it a memory true?)

A proud youth, unblemished,

Phocas and Persians were beaten,

And their stars did they rue.

Behind the Cataphracts gallops

(With that young lord

it’s hard to keep up)

Gothic blood, vandal blood, heretic, schematic -

Dry is the Imperial throat

So clear was then all,

Right and true withal;

Redemption, the common weal-

Virtue and piety’s call!

Heaven once me had chosen,

(were they Ida’s or Galilean?)

Then I heard the Thunderer’s calling:

“Go and save the sons of Crispin!”