At nightfall, when the host withdrew,
A spearman, whom they counted dead,
In dying strength raised up his head
And sped a poisoned dart, which slew
Ciro, who from the tower's height
Leaned out to watch the evening light.
And thus of four there remained but three.
Celia clomb the winding stair
And thought of how her yellow hair
Could save the three, if she should dare