One arm, the horror's tearing tusks had ripped
And ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,
Which at his hip hung long a haft gold-gilt;
Its rapid splinter drew; beamed twice and thrice
High in the sun its ghastliness of ice
Plunged—and the great boar, stretched in sullen death,
Weakened thro' wild veins, groaned laborious breath.
And how he brought her water from a well
That rustled freshness near them, as it fell
From its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque,