 | Constance De Castile |  |
XII.
Almanzor storms, his soul's on fire:“Thus, thus, I conquer, or expire!”
He spake, and centering in one blow
Resistless strength to crush the foe,
Fiercely with high-rais'd falchion sprung.
While, pois'd in air, aloft it hung,
While yet the Paynim onward prest,
His keen-ey'd rival mark'd the wound
That stain'd with gushing blood his breast,
Peirc'd with swift stroke th' unguarded part,
And sheath'd the weapon in his heart.
149
And rolling wild his eyes around
Clos'd them for ever on the day,
And, struggling, groan'd his soul away.
| Constance De Castile | |