He knows not that his comrade dies, 



Nor what is death — but still 

 His aspect hath expression drear 

 Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear, 

 Like startled children when they hear 

 Some mystic tale of ill. 



But he that bent the fatal bow, 

 Can well the sum of evil know, 

 And o'er his favourite, bending low, 



In speechless grief recline; 

 Can think he hears the senseless clay 

 In unreproachful accents say, 

 " The hand that took my life away, 



Dear master, was it thine ? 



" And if it be, the shaft be bless'd, 

 Which sure some erring aim address'd, 

 Since in your service prized, caress'd, 



I in your service die ; 

 And you may have a fleeter hound, 

 To match the dun-deer's merry bound, 

 But by your couch will ne'er be found 



So true a guard as I." 



And to his last stout Percy rued 

 The fatal chance ; for when he stood 

 'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud, 

 And fell amid the fray, 

 K 129 



