Choice of Death

Might I, without offending, chooseThe death that I would die,I'd fall, as erst the Templar fell,Aneath a Syrian sky.

Upon a glorious plain of war,The banners floating fair,My lance and fluttering pennoncelShould marshal heroes there!

Upon the solemn battle-eve,With prayer to be forgiven,I'd arm me for a righteous fight,Imploring peace of Heaven!

High o'er the thunders of the chargeShould wave my sable plume,And where the day was lost or won,There should they place my tomb!