A Battle Picutre

Three mounted buglers laced in gold,
Sidelong veering, light in seat,
High on the crest of battle rolled
Ere yet the surge is downward beat,
The pennoned trumpets lightly hold—
Mark how they snatch the swift occasion
To thrill their rearward invocation—
While the sabres, never coy,
Ring responses as they ride;
And, like breakers of the tide,
All the mad plumes dance for joy!