With a bound, through the lists, to the tilt rushing on,
Down hurling some Templar, or Knight of Saint John;
When the heralds were crying—Brave Knights, have a care,
Upon ye are beaming the eyes of the fair!
O then, with what grace from your steed vaulting off,
Your helmet, all plumed, to the ladies you'd doff;
How you smiled, bent the knee, to the Queen Berengère,[A]
While thousands of handkerchiefs waved in the air!
How the charger of Saladin proud you bestrode,
And, fearless, to conquer the gallant Turk rode!