William Hayley

“ The scene his war-steel'd nerves could shock,
Seated on mossy stones
The widow, leaning 'gainst a rock,
Wept o'er his horse's bones.
Enrag'd from his new steed he vaults,
Quick with his foot to spurn
These bones, that bid his bloody faults
To his base mind return.
The head, now bleach'd, his proud foot strikes
With such indignant speed,
The bone its fierce aggressor spikes;
It is his turn to bleed.
The trivial wound the wrathful knight
Disdains to search with care.
But soon he finds, the wound tho' slight,
Death lurks in ambush there. ”