Of silver'd locks and furrow'd brow,
A venerable man.
E'en when his thousand warriors fled—
Their low-born valour quail'd and gone—
He—the meek leader of that band—
Remained, and fought alone.
He stood; fierce foemen throng'd around;
The hollow death-groans of despair.
The clashing sword, the cleaving axe,
The murd'rous dirk were there.