 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
III.
A grasp as of iron caught him behind—He turn'd—and he was seiz'd again;
His powerless arms they grasp and bind,
He called for aid—he called in vain.
Strong was the knight, unwont to yield,
Approv'd in many a battle field,
But in that clasp so swift and stern,
He might not struggle, he might not turn—
A new-born infant's sinews might
Cope with a giant's limbs in fight
As well, as hopefully—
He calls, the watch-dog sleeps unrous'd,
Nor heed the slumbering menials hous'd
Their master's jeopardy.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |