He, the defender,—he, the good and just,—
Is gone; his name, his honour, in the dust!
“He prized but treasures to bestow,
He cherish’d state but to be free;
None from his walls unsped might go,
To all he gave, but most to me!
“Ruddy his cheeks as morning’s light,
His ready lance was firm and bright,
The crimson stains that on it glow
Tell of the Saxon’s overthrow.