And proudly waved his crest;
Be mounted on his jet-black barb
And put his lance in rest.
Percy, Reliques.
Eftsoons the wight withouten more delay
Spurr’d his brown barb, and rode full swiftly on his way.
Spenser.
Hark! was it not the trumpet’s voice I heard?
The soul of battle is awake within me!
The fate of ages and of empires hangs