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JAROSLAW.
17
For both contending armies set
A limit to the fight.
O God! it is a sight of woe!
The glorious Wneslaw falls!
Struck by an arrow down he sinks
Beneath the Christians’ walls.
Now anguish tears the heavy heart.
Thirst doth the entrails pain,
With dry and parchéd throats they lick
The dewy grass in vain.
Still eve into cool night doth pass.
Night into morning gray,
And all within the Tatar camp
Tranquil and quiet lay.
The day doth mid-day heat assume,
Through thirst the Christians fall,
And ope their parchèd mouths in pain,
And on God’s Mother call.
To her their weaken’d eyes they turn,
And wring in agony
Their hands, from earth to heaven’s height
Looking imploringly.
‘We cannot longer faint with thirst,
For thirst we cannot fight;
C
