The Death of the Count of Armanac
For dead beside the white water
A fallen knight they find;
His helmet lies upon the grass,
His locks stir in the wind.
"Now speak a word, my prisoners!
What great captain is he
Who died away from battle
Alone and piteously?"
Woe! and woe for Armanac,
And woe for all of us,
And for his sister's honour, woe,
That he be fallen thus!
For "where's the Count of Armanac?"
The Lombard women sing:
"He died at Alexandria—
Of the water of a spring!"
Thy name is made a mock, my Lord,
Thy vengeance still to pay.
And we must pine in Lombardy
For many and many a day!
285
