Having sustained a loss, {182g} Moried bore no shield,
But traversed the strand {183a} to set the ground on fire;
Firmly he grasped in his hand a blue blade,
And a shaft ponderous as the chief priest's {183b} crozier;
He rode a grey stately {183c} headed charger,
And beneath his blade there was a dreadful fall of slaughter;
When overpowered {183d} he fled not from the battle,--
Even he who poured out to us the famous mead, that sweet ensnarer.