13
A chosen troop of Scottish youths
Advanc’d before the rest;
Lord Percy mark’d their gallant mien,
And thus his friend address’d:
Now, Bertram, prove thy lady's helme,
Attack yon forward band;
Dead or alive I’ll rescue thee,
Or perish by their hand.
Young Bertram bow’d with glad assent
And spurr’d his eager steed,
And calling on his lady’s name,
Rush’d forth with whirlwind speed.
As when a grove of sapling oaks
The livid lightning rends;
So fiercely ’mid the opposing ranks,
Sir Bertram’s sword deseends.
This way and that he drives the steel
And keenly pierces through;
And many a tall and comely knight
With furious force he slew.
Now closing fast on every side,
They hem Sir Bertram round:
But dauntless he repels their rage,
And deals forth many a wound.
The vigour of his single arm
Had well nigh won the field;
When ponderous fell a Scottish axe,
And clove his lifted shield.
Another blow his temples took,
And reft his helme in twain;
That beauteous helme, his lady’s gift
---His blood bedew’d the plain.
Lord Percy saw his champion fall
Amid the unequal fight:
And now, my noble friends, he said,
Let’s save this gallant knight.
Then rushing in, with uplift shield,
He o’er the warrior hung;
As some fierce eagle spreads her wing
To guard her callow young.
Three times they strove to seize their prey,
Three times they quick retire:
What force could stand his furious stroke,
Or meet his martial fire!
