“Now crushed with odds, their phalanx broke, each Norman fights alone,
And few are left throughout the field, and they are feeble grown,
But high o’er all, Sir Tristram’s voice is like a trumpet heard,
And still, where’er he strikes, the foemen sink beneath his sword.
“But once he raised his visor up—alas, it was to try
If Hamo and his boy yet tarried on the mountain nigh,
When sharp an arrow from the foe pierced right through his brain,
And sank the gallant knight a corse upon the bloody plain.
“Then failed the fight, for gathering round his lifeless body there,
The remnant of his gallant band fought fiercely in despair;