Loud he laughed; but he laughed not long
Ere he leaped to the back of his charger strong,
And bounded forward, axe on high,
Circling the tents with his battle-cry,--
"Away! away! we shall win the day:
In the front of the fight you'll find me:
The first to get in my spurs shall win,--
My boots to the wight behind me!"
* * * They have reached the moat;
The draw is up, but a wooden float
Is thrust across, and onward they run;
The bank is gained and the barbican won;
The outer gate goes down with a crash;
Through the portcullis they madly dash,
And with shouts of triumph they now assail
The innermost gate. The crushing hail
Of rocks and beams goes through the mass,
Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass;--
They falter, they waver. A stalwart form
Breaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm:
'Tis the Lion King!--"How, now, ye knaves!
Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!"--
One blow to the left, one blow to the right,--
Two recreants fall;--no more of flight.
One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke,
His curtle-axe rends the double oak.
Down shower the missiles;--they fall in vain;
They scatter like drops from the lion's mane.
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