"Harold's host he soon descried, Clustering on the hill's steep side: Then turned him back brave Taillefer, And thus to William urged his prayer: 'Great Sire, it fits me not to tell How long I've served you, or how well; Yet if reward my lays may claim, Grant now the boon I dare to name; Minstrel no more, be mine the blow That first shall strike yon perjured foe.' 'Thy suit is gained,' the Duke replied, 'Our gallant minstrel be our guide.' 'Enough,' he cried, 'with joy I speed, Foremost to vanquish or to bleed.' "And still of Roland's deeds he sung, While Norman shouts responsive rung, As high in air his lance he flung, With well directed might; Back came the lance into his hand, Like urchin's ball, or juggler's wand, And twice again, at his command, Whirled its unerring flight.-- While doubting whether skill or charm Had thus inspired the minstrel's arm, The Saxons saw the wondrous dart Fixed in their standard bearer's heart. "Now thrice aloft his sword he threw, 'Midst sparkling sunbeams dancing, And downward thrice the weapon flew, Like meteor o'er the evening dew, From summer sky swift glancing: And while amazement gasped for breath, Another Saxon groaned in death. "More wonders yet!--on signal made, With mane erect, and eye-balls flashing, The well taught courser rears his head, His teeth in ravenous fury gnashing; He snorts--he foams--and upward springs-- Plunging he fastens on the foe, And down his writhing victim flings, Crushed by the wily minstrel's blow. Thus seems it to the hostile band Enchantment all, and fairy land. "Fain would I leave the rest unsung:-- The Saxon ranks, to madness stung, Headlong rushed with frenzied start, Hurling javelin, mace, and dart; No shelter from the iron shower Sought Taillefer in that sad hour; Yet still he beckoned to the field, 'Frenchman, come on--the Saxons yield-- Strike quick--strike home--in Roland's name-- For William's glory--Harold's shame.' Then pierced with wounds, stretched side by side, The minstrel and his courser died."