MARY A. FIELD.
1. Of old rode forth a knight,
In his glitt'ring armor dressed,
Who pledged for aye his good sword's might,
To help the sore distressed.
Is the knightly race all dust?
Have helpless cries all ceased,
That we let our armor gather rust
While we idly sing and feast?
2. Nay, the world still throbs with pain,
And the sky is dark with wrong,
Heaven send a stainless knight again,
In his truth and courage strong!
Oh send a man of might,
Who is not bought with gold,
Who shall boldly strike for God and right
As in knightly days of old!