Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

Here you will find the Poem Chant Royal Of High Virtue of poet Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

Chant Royal Of High Virtue

Who lives in suit of armour pent 
And hides himself behind a wall,
For him is not the great event, 
The garland nor the Capitol.
And is God's guerdon less than they? 
Nay, moral man, I tell thee Nay:
Nor shall the flaming forts be won 
By sneaking negatives alone,
By Lenten fast or Ramazàn; 
But by the challenge proudly thrown--
_Virtue is that becrowns a Man!_
God, in His Palace resident 
Of Bliss, beheld our sinful ball,
And charged His own Son innocent 
Us to redeem from Adam's fall.
'Yet must it be that men Thee slay.'
'Yea, tho' it must, must I obey,'
Said Christ; and came, His royal Son,
To die, and dying to atone 
For harlot, thief, and publican.
Read on that rood He died upon-- 
_Virtue is that becrowns a Man!_
Beneath that rood where He was bent 
I saw the world's great captains all
Pass riding home from tournament 
Adown the road from Roncesvalles--
Lord Charlemagne, in one array
Lords Caesar, Cyrus, Attila,
Lord Alisaundre of Macedon ...
With flame on lance and habergeon 
They passed, and to the rataplan
Of drums gave salutation-- 
_'Virtue is that becrowns a Man!'_
Had tall Achilles lounged in tent 
For aye, and Xanthus neigh'd in stall,
The towers of Troy had ne'er been shent, 
Nor stay'd the dance in Priam's hall.
Bend o'er thy book till thou be grey,
Read, mark, perpend, digest, survey,
Instruct thee deep as Solomon,
One only chapter thou canst con, 
One lesson learn, one sentence scan,
One title and one colophon-- 
_Virtue is that becrowns a Man!_
High Virtue's best is eloquent 
With spur and not with martingall:
Swear not to her thou'rt continent: 
God fashion'd thee of chosen clay
For service, nor did ever say,
'Deny thee this,' 'Abstain from yon,'
But to inure thee, thew and bone. 
To be confirmed of the clan
That made immortal Marathon-- 
Virtue is that becrowns a Man!