Sir Palamedes

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! 13