Some paler cheeks might there be seen, some eyes
Big with sad bodings, and some natural tears.
Count Pedro’s war-horse in the vacant space
Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf,
And gazing round upon the martial show,
Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head,
And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill
Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy.
The page beside him holds his master’s spear
And shield and helmet. In the castle-gate