The knightly spur, and grasped the avenging steel
For France and glory; he, whose matchless might
O’erwhelmed all foes; whose name, if heard in fight,
Back from each front could make the life-blood start,
And turn to coward’s every warrior’s heart.
Moveless he lay—unmarked and powerless now,
With none to wipe the death sweat from his brow:
His hand was on his blade—his eager eye
Glanced feebly upward to the glowing sky,
As if to curse the fierce and searching air