RHYME OF JOYOUS GUARD 



May his craven spirit find little grace, 

 He was seal'd to Satan in any case, 



Yet the loser had been the winner ; 

 Had I wax'd fainter or he less faint, 

 Then my soul was free from this loathsome 



taint, 

 I had died as a Christian knight — no saint 

 Perchance, yet a pardon'd sinner. 



But I strove full grimly beneath his weight, 

 I clung to his poignard desperate, 



I baffled the thrust that followed, 

 And writhing uppermost rose, to deal. 

 With bare three inches of broken steel, 

 One stroke — Ha ! the headpiece crash'd 

 piecemeal. 



And the knave in his black blood 

 wallow'd. 



So I lived for worse — in fulness of time, 



When peace for a season swayed the clime, 



And spears for a space were idle ; 



Trusted and chosen of all the court, 



A favoured herald of fair report, 



I traveird eastward, and duly brought 



A bride to a queenly bridal. 

 i6 241 



