Mine, mine at last! Poor vanquished slave, begone!
Say you my lord hath conquered? look on me!
That fading wreath of laurel he hath won
Vies not with beauty's crown of victory!

What laggard steed doth carry
My lord home to-day?
Ah! wherefore doth he tarry
So long upon the way?
Knew he that beauty's flower
Refashioned waits him here,
Methinks each fleeting hour
Would seem a lingering year!

Ride on, my lord, ride on!
Ride on, and thou shalt find
Cheeks of whitest snow
Where reddest roses grow
O'er mounds of moulded pearl;

Eyes of darkest jet
Rimmed round with violet,
Tresses that unfurl
Like banners in the wind
Whereon the sun, the sun hath shone!
Ride on, my lord!

Nay, though the crowd be thronging
To kiss thy finger-tips,
Ride on! these lips are longing,
Sweet love, to greet thy lips.
Then sheathe that sword thou bearest,
Cast the laurel from thy brow;
Those eyes that sought the fairest
Shall behold the fairest now.
Ride on, ride on!
Sweet love, these lips are longing.
To greet thy lips.
Ride on, ride on.

These lips are longing, sweet love,
To greet thy lips.
Ride on, my lord, ride on!

Ride on! ride on! ride on! ride on! ride on!