Smote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist,
That heaved Excalibur for one last blow;
Sudden the palsied sinews of his foe
Relaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized,
Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King eased
Himself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;
And clasping in both arms of wiry war
His foe, Sir Accolon,—as one hath seen
A strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green,
And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs,