The Royal Lords of Swordsmanship

The Royal Lords of Swordsmanship
were out in force upon the moors.
As if by secret summons called,
they coldly strode so boldly forth

from storied hall and castle keep
- while good men sleep, they rise in vain!
Conceit in every sinew, limb
- their glint of eye and fierce of mien, obscured

upon a mist-drenched night, as dead day's sun
sends last red rays through red mist falling,
curtained off - a ghastly twilight
sets the stage.

Matched off in pairs, squared off to fight,
they drank the moment, deep in breath
and flesh and blood, and readiness:
defending honor to the death

by deeds alone - no seemly words,
but steely swords sprang forth! And rang,
upon the mist-drenched moors and cliffs -
no witness heard the echo'd clang

of hard, hard steel, sharp blade on blade
- no spectator took in the play!
They strove with form exemplary
each parry, feint, riposte displayed

a high and lordly character
- an honor, unimpeachable!
Their lunges and their thrusts struck home
with puissance unspeakable.

These Royal Lords of Swordsmanship
have all sworn oaths, pledged man to man
to live by credo cruel and hard:
and to the death!

…With sword in hand.