That old life under. Herman swimming
Seized but the horse tail. Like a buck
Breasting a lake in wild woods' pluck,
Joost rose, the glaze his bright eyes dimming,
And blood his sockets brimming.

Then voices speak and women cry.
The treading feet find soil to stand.
Above them the green ramparts lie,
And twixt their shadows and the sky,
The wondering burghers crowd the strand,
And Herman help to land:

"Now to Newcastle's English walls,
Hail, Herman! and thy matchless stud!"
Joost staggers up the bank and falls,
And dying to his master crawls.
Yields up his long solicitude,
And spills his veins of blood.

In Herman's arms his neck is prest,
With martial pride his dark eye glazes;
He feels the hand he loves the best
Stroke fondly, and a chill of rest,
As if he rolled in pasture daisies
And heard in winds his praises:

"O couldst thou speak, what wouldst thou say?
I who can speak am dumb before thee.
Thine eyes that drink Olympian day