XXVII.

By that dread blaze upon the topmost height A young French chieftain coped with Morton’s sword; Their clashing blades upon the brow of night Threw clustering sparkles swift as Brontes poured ’Gainst Steropes whilst Ætna’s forges roared; And round and round they leapt to every stroke, And with good will each point of fence explored. But Morton’s firmer hand his guard soon broke; The Gaulish chief disarmed the word “Surrender” spoke.