XXXIX.

“And rushed great Arthur to the field again, And conquest o’er his helm unceasing played. On many a dire, tremendous battle plain The eagle-crest of Gallia low he laid, The arms allied in all triumphant made. My soul doth grow more tranquil--blame him not, If ruffian-soldiers’ deeds his laurels shade; Too oft in Victory justice is forgot, Too oft are arméd men like fiends when passion’s hot.