Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/160

 "Cry out St. Peter now," quoth Aldovrand;

I cried, "St. Peter," broke out from the wood

With all my spears; we met them hand to hand,

And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood,

We caught not blackhead then, or any day;

Months after that he died at last in bed,

From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray;

That same year's end a steel bolt in the head,

And much bad living kill'd Teste Noire at last;

John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now,

No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past;

Perchance then you can tell him what I show.

In my new castle, down beside the Eure,

There is a little chapel of squared stone,

Painted inside and out; in green nook pure

There did I lay them, every wearied bone;

And over it they lay, with stone-white hands

Clasped fast together, hair made bright with gold;

This Jaques Picard, known through many lands,

Wrought cunningly; he's dead now—I am old.