THE TROUBADOUR.
133
Was like a slaughter-pit, of green
Could not one single trace be seen;
The Moslem warrior stretch'd beside
The Christian chief by whom he died;
And by the broken falchion blade
The crooked scymeter was laid.
And gallantly had Raymond borne
The red cross through the field that morn,
When suddenly he saw a knight
Oppress'd by numbers in the fight:
Instant his ready spear was flung,
Instant amid the band he sprung;—
They fight, fly, fall,—and from the fray
He leads the wounded knight away!
Gently he gain'd his tent, and there
He left him to the leech's care;
