The godless drove unto a goal
Was worse than vile defeat.
Did vengeance prick Count Louis’ soul
They dressed him luscious meat.
XXIV
Worms will the faithless find their lies
In the close treasure-chest.
Without a God no day can rise,
Though it should slay our best.
XXV
The Crown it furled a draggled flag,
It sheathed a broken blade.
Behold its triumph in the hag
That lives with looks decayed!
XXVI
And lo, the man of oaken head,
Of soldier’s honour bare,
He fled his land, but most he fled
His Lady’s frigid stare.
XXVII
Judged by the issue we discern
God’s blessing, and the bane.
Count Louis’ dust would fill an urn,
His deeds are waving grain.