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When England's conquering archers stood, And dyed thy plain, Poitiers, with blood, When shivered axe, and cloven shield, And shattered helmet, strewed the field, And France around her King in vain, Had marshalled valour's noblest train; In that dread strife, his lightning eye, Had flashed with transport keen and high, And 'midst the battle's wildest tide, Throbb'd his young heart with hope and pride. Alike that fearless heart could brave, Death on the war-field or the wave; Alike in tournament or fight, That ardent spirit found delight! Yet oft, 'midst hostile scenes afar, Bright o'er his soul a vision came, Rising, like some benignant star, On stormy seas, or plains of war, To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, The heart that throbb'd to Bertha's name!