White was the great steed under him,
White was the gleam of mailéd limb-
Swift as the warrior seraphim!

White was the steed, but dashed with red,
White were the locks that blew outspread,
White was the sword-hilt overhead.

White as the sea-wave's flower of foam!
One shout for Britain, Christ, and Rome!
Horseman and horse went shattering home.

I saw them, as he onward sped,
White horse to white horse of the dead:-
Then the pale banner whirled and fled.

I saw the thousands in his wake,
The wingéd spears that stream and shake,
I heard the crash, as thousands brake.

And, borne upon the wind along,
A faint far swell of chant and song,
A jubilation vast and strong.

Where Ambrose and his thousands fell,
There rises still that holy swell,
Proving their work was done right well.

Where Ambrose and his thousands lie,
The stars of Heaven go sweeping by,
The eyes of Heaven that shall not die.

Where Ambrose and his thousands are
There needs no light of dawn or star,
For the great glory shining far.

Glory to glory, grace on grace!
Hero of Britain's ancient race,
Our crowned one of the holy place!