LXXIX.

Having sustained a loss, {182g} Moried bore no shield, But traversed the strand {183a} to set the ground on fire; Firmly he grasped in his hand a blue blade, And a shaft ponderous as the chief priest's {183b} crozier; He rode a grey stately {183c} headed charger, And beneath his blade there was a dreadful fall of slaughter; When overpowered {183d} he fled not from the battle,-- Even he who poured out to us the famous mead, that sweet ensnarer.