THE YOUNG AVENGER.
175
Till droop’d the valiant infidel, fainter his blows and few,
While fiercer from the combat still the youthful Christian grew.
Nourreddin falls, his sever'd head, it is young Lara’s prize:
But dizzily the field of death floats in the victor's eyes.
His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his white lips gasp for breath:
Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the victory and death.
He raised him on his arm, "My page, come thou and do my will;
Canst thou not see a turban'd band upon yon distant hill?
