Low lay Gleneden’s chief—his crimson vest
Dark with the blood warm springing from his breast;
O’er him stood Gilbert—still his sabre kept
At bay the circling host that round him swept,
When, with a long, wild shout, and bursting shock,
The ranks are riven, the reeling masses rock,
And piercing through the midst fresh troops are seen,
With weapons bared and clad in robes of green.
“Oh welcome, welcome!” burst from Gilbert’s tongue,
As proudly to that column’s head he sprung;