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Reeking behind the Moorish backs appear
The shining point of many a Lusian spear;
The mail-coats, hauberks, and the harness steel'd,
Bruis'd, hackt, and torn, lie scatter'd o'er the field;
Beneath the Lusian sweepy force o'erthrown,
Crush'd by their batter'd mails the wounded groan;
Burning with thirst they draw their panting breath,
And curse their prophet as they writhe in death.
Arms sever'd from the trunks still grasp the steel,
Heads gasping roll; the fighting squadrons reel;
Fainty
