17
No stinted draught, no seanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans died.
Fierce Rhoderick 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,
Boiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Rhoderick's weapon from his hand,
And, backwards borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
'Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!'
'Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!
Let recreant yield who fears to die.'—
Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung:
Received, but reeked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.—
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!—
They tug, they strain!—down, down, they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftian's grip his throat compressed,
His knee was planted on his breast;
His elotted locks he backward threw,
Aeross his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!—
—But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game:
For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
