 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XX.
The sun walks high in his pilgrimage,He smiles at the wars that mortals wage,
And laughing, shakes his golden hair,
While battle drives uncheck'd his share;—
Onward in his slippery course
Plunging, tears the gory horse,
Where vassal, knight, and bandit spread,
Lie swelter'd in their common bed.
165
The strife wax'd fiercest, he was there;
His charger slain, on foot he fought,
And still his foe thro' the battle sought;
But morn had wan'd away, and yet
Th' apostate traitor he had not met;
Tho' he saw his crest careering proud,
And heard his bugle, shrill and loud,—
He was borne away by the surging crowd.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |