JAROSLAW.
27
They strike, they stab, they shout for joy,
They shriek in agony.
Like torrents swoln by heavy rain,
Flow’d forth the warrior’s blood,
And corpses lay upon the ground,
Like fell’d trees in a wood.
One hath his hands both smitten off,
Cleft is another’s head,
Another from his steed is flung,
That stumbles o’er the dead.
And here doth one his enemies
Strike down in furious mood,
As on the rocky mountain side
A tempest rends the wood.
There hilt-deep in a foeman’s heart
Another’s sword doth pierce,
Here from another’s head the ear
A Tatar severs fierce.
A shout! a cry of woe is heard!
Now, now the Christians yield;
The Tatars press them furiously,
And chase them o’er the field.
But like an eagle Jaroslaw
Doth to the rescue fly;
