XV.

Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside; For, trained abroad his arms to wield Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartars dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain; And, as firm rock or castle-roof Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still, Foiled his wild rage by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And backward borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.