And midmost of that rolling field Ran Ogier ragingly,Lashing at Mark, who turned his blow,And brake the helm about his brow And broke him to his knee.
Then Ogier heaved over his head His huge round shield of proof;Then Mark set one foot on the shield,One on some sundered rock upheeled,And towered above the tossing field, A statue on a roof.
Dealing far blows about the fight, Like thunder-bolts a-roam,Like birds about the battle-field,While Ogier writhed under his shield Like a tortoise in his dome.
But hate in the buried Ogier Was strong as pain in hell,With bare brute hand from the insideHe burst the shield of brass and hide,And a death-stroke to the Roman's side Sent suddenly and well.
Then the great statue on the shieldLooked his last look around
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