Worn by long marching, wearied, dark with soil—
But not one fiery bosom tamed by toil—
On the hard floor their limbs they careless lay,
And wait their arms beside th’ approaching day—
Small thought have they of aught of daintier fare—
Few nights, I ween, for them such couch prepare.
II.
As one who watched his slumbering band to guard,
Their chieftain, Gilbert, slowly paced the sward.
His ebon locks thrown back to catch the breeze,