I
Ho, trumpets1, sound a war-note! Ho, lictors, clear the way! The Knights3 will ride, in all their pride, Along the streets to-day. To-day the doors and windows Are hung with garlands all, From Castor in the Forum4, To Mars without the wall. Each Knight2 is robed in purple, With olive each is crowned; A gallant5 war-horse under each Paws haughtily6 the ground. While flows the Yellow River, While stands the Sacred Hill, The proud Ides of Quintilis Shall have such honor still. Gay are the Martian Kalends, December's Nones are gay, But the proud Ides, when the squadron rides, Shall be Rome's whitest day.