In many a hard-fought field, helming his head Narrow ascent, where one alone could meet The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud, A single warrior, who at length must sink There was amid the garrison A fearless Knight who at Verneuil had fought, The battle-axe, and smote upon the lance * I have met with one instance in the English history, and only one, of throwing the spear after the manner of the ancients. It is in the chronicle of Howes. "1442. The 30th of January, a challenge was done in Smithfield within lists, before the King; the one Sir Philip de Beawse of Arragon a Knight, and the other an Esquire of the King's house called John Ausley or Astley. These comming to the fielde, tooke their tents, and there was the Knight's Sonne made Knight 'by the King, and so brought again to his father's tent. Then 'the Heralds of Armes called them by name to doe their battell, and so they came both, all armed, with their weapons; the Knight came with his sword drawn, and the Esquire with his speare. The Esquire cast his speare against the Knight, but the Knight avoiding it with his sword cast it to 'the ground. Then the Esquire took his axe and went against the Knight suddenly, on whom he stroke many strokes, hard and sore upon his basenet, and on his hand, and made him loose and let fall his axe to the ground, and brast up his limbes three times, and caught his dagger and would have smitten him in the face, for to have slaine him in the field; and then the King cried hoo, and so they were departed and went to their tents, and the King dubbed John Astley Knight for his valiant Torney, and the Knight of Arragon offered his armes at Windsor." Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon fled : Full on the + corselet of a meaner man It fell, and pierced, there where the heaving lungs, Roll back their purged tide: from the deep wound ་་ Died the mean man; yet did he leave behind Of him forgetful; who to every tale Of the distant war, lending an eager ear, Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door, + The corselet was chiefly worn by pikemen. Gaze on-then heart-sick turn to her And weep it fatherless! poor babe, The enraged Knight Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step Held forth his buckler, and his battle axe But terrified The English stood, nor dürst adventure now Near that death-doing man. Amid their host In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow; |