BOOK THE SEVENTH.
237
One who did never say her daily prayers,
Of him forgetful; who to every tale
Of the distant war, lending an eager ear,
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door, 325
The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eye
Gaze o'er the plain, where on his parting steps
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know
Her husband dead, but tortur'd with vain hope,
Gaze on—then heart-sick turn to her poor babe, 330
And weep it fatherless!
The enraged Knight
Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step
Moved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank,
Laying his javelin by, his battle-axe
Uplifted. Where the buckler was below 335
Rounded, the falchion struck; but impotent
To pierce its plated folds, more forceful driven,
Fierce on his crested helm, the Frenchman's stroke
Fell; the helm shivered; from his eyes the blood
Started; with blood the chambers of the brain 340
Of him forgetful; who to every tale
Of the distant war, lending an eager ear,
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door, 325
The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eye
Gaze o'er the plain, where on his parting steps
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know
Her husband dead, but tortur'd with vain hope,
Gaze on—then heart-sick turn to her poor babe, 330
And weep it fatherless!
The enraged Knight
Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step
Moved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank,
Laying his javelin by, his battle-axe
Uplifted. Where the buckler was below 335
Rounded, the falchion struck; but impotent
To pierce its plated folds, more forceful driven,
Fierce on his crested helm, the Frenchman's stroke
Fell; the helm shivered; from his eyes the blood
Started; with blood the chambers of the brain 340
Were
