Are England’s men. I ween that ye belong
To some base mongrel breed, against the helpless strong.
X.
And Nial’s gentle voice the old man’s ear
Like music enters. Slowly he doth rise,
And ’neath the hero’s guidance without fear
Father and daughter, yet with many sighs,
A step advance. In vain Salustian tries
The turret to descend—his wound too deep.
A litter Nial’s active zeal supplies;