BOOK THE EIGHTH.
273
Perform'd a friendly part, hastening the hour,
Grief else had soon brought on.
The English Chief,
Pointing again his arbalist, let loose
The string; the quarrel, driven by that strong blow, 235
True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd
Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall
Flow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs,
Headlong he fell: he for the wintry hour 240
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,
A man in his small circle well-beloved.
None better knew with prudent hand to guide
The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time
To press the full-swoln clusters: he, heart-glad, 245
Taught his young boys the little all he knew,
Enough for happiness. The English host
Laid waste his fertile fields; he, to the war,
By want compell'd, adventur'd,—in his gore
Now weltering.
Grief else had soon brought on.
The English Chief,
Pointing again his arbalist, let loose
The string; the quarrel, driven by that strong blow, 235
True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd
Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall
Flow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs,
Headlong he fell: he for the wintry hour 240
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,
A man in his small circle well-beloved.
None better knew with prudent hand to guide
The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time
To press the full-swoln clusters: he, heart-glad, 245
Taught his young boys the little all he knew,
Enough for happiness. The English host
Laid waste his fertile fields; he, to the war,
By want compell'd, adventur'd,—in his gore
Now weltering.
Nor
