Page:The-knickerbocker-gallery-(knickerbockergal00clarrich).djvu/376

Thrice the sharp sabre to thy brow!
Thrice Ulric's swift hand wards the blow—
Wards and avenges well—for low
They lie who struck. Each recreant dies!

The last survivor, panting, flies;
But e'er his Arab steed he pressed
He turned to aim at Fritz's breast
    One winged ball of hate.
Now, Ulric! speed! In Sultan's flank,
Deep, deep the spur, encrimsoned, sank,
    Alas! too late! too late!
He sees his sword, so swift and keen,
All useless now, but rides between,
    With one convulsive bound;
And then the flash, the smoke, the shout,
The clear report rang sharply out,
The deadly messenger he feels;
Starts sudden, in his saddle reels,
    Then sinks upon the ground!
 
Fritz springs to save him! sees, oh Death!
Thy heavy hand ! Thy failing breath,
    Thy smothered groan of pain!
To stanch, he strives, the bubbling blood,
Outgushing in a swollen flood,
    A dreadful task, and vain.
 
"Oh, general! Oh, fatal strife!
For mine thou gavest thy precious life!
    The ball was meant for me!"
"That flying fellow sent it home,
His aim was good; my hour hath come—
    My hour of victory."

And now from Fritz's white cheek flowed
The hue, that all the battle stood;
    And dropped his blinded eyes.
"Oh, fatal, fatal day!" he said,
As o'er that brow the death-damp spread;