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181
The battle's strife was well nigh o'er;
When an archer, slight and slim,
At Rupert aiming twanged his bow—
Fate sped the shaft to him.
From off his steed down sunk the Knight;
The Archer-youth looked on
A moment's space—then bow and shafts
Flung from him every one,
And by the wounded Rupert knelt—
'Twas strange to see a foe
Striving all tenderly to staunch
The blood he caused to flow!
'Twas stanger yet to mark the tears,
That in a quick warm shower,
Streamed from that archers eyes, when fell
A crushed long-faded flower
From Rupert's vest.—It seemed, in sooth,
Some charm of wizard power,
Which thus that Archer's spirit quelled
In such a stirring hour.
Stranger and yet more strange it seemed,
When cap and waving plume
