With slaying, and their chargers straddling, blown
With undue speed, as they had hunted that
Which could not turn again--e'en thus was Rupert,
When round to meet his squadrons came a host
Like whirlwind to the wind.
There was a moment that the blood-surge roll'd
Hither and thither, while you saw in the air
Ten thousand bright blades, and as many eyes
Of flame flashed terribly. Then Rupert stay'd
His hot hand in amazement,
And all his blood-stain'd chivalry grew pale:
The hunters, chang'd to quarry, fled amain,
I saw the prince's jet-black, favourite barb
Thrown on her haunches; then away, away,
Her speed did bear him safe. Then there came one,
A grisly man, with head all bare and grey,
That shouted, "Smite and scatter, spare not, ho!
Ye chosen of the Lord!" and they did smite,
As on the anvil; till the plumed helms
Of all our best bent down. Alas! alas!
That I should see this day---

[_Looks about and finds his son._]

What's this, my son!
Wounded? my disobedient child?
I thought of him
But now in charging, as I met a foe
That beat my sword-arm down--had he been there
I had not suffer'd--nay, what colours these?