III.
All things great may life afford,
Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud,
Till the banquet be toward
Hath this king. Then day takes flight,
Sinketh sun and fadeth light,
Late he coucheth—Night; 't is night.
The proud king heading the host on his red roan charger.
Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun,
The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger
Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were won.
Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever
The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry,
Fell tumult; trampling and carnage—then fails endeavour,
O shame upon shame—the Christians falter and fly.
The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them,
The king borne back in the mêlée; all, all is vain;
They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind them,
Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks amain.
Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving,
The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation brand,
'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet cleaving,
That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert sand.
Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling
Flies after. Athirst, ashamèd, he yieldeth his breath,
While one looks down from his charger; and calm slow smiling,
Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death.