SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
Though one by one the heroes fall,
Their desperate way they slowly win,
And knightly cry and comrade-call
Rise high above the savage din.
Now, now they land, a dwindling crew ;
Now, now fresh armies hem them round.
They cleave their blood-bought avenue,
And cluster on the upper ground.
Ah! but dawn’s dreadful front uprears !
The tall towers blaze, to illume the fight;
While many a myriad heathen spears
March northward at the earliest light.
Falls thy last comrade at thy feet,
O lordly-souled Sir Palamede?
Tearing the savage from his seat,
He leaps upon a coal-black steed.
He gallops raging through the press :
The affrighted heathen fear his eye.
There madness gleams, there masterless
The whirling sword shrieks shrill and high,
They shrink, he gallops. Closely clings
The child slung at his waist; and he
Heeds nought, but gallops wide, and sings
Wild war-songs, chants of gramarye!
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