The Funeral, XVIII

Men often show least signs of fear When certain danger hovers near: The Pict conceal’d his wrath— He craved the Bishop’s benison, Then went like Roman denizen To victory or death! His zone with iron hoops was braced; His buckler on his arm was placed, Made of the buffalo’s hide; While, punctured, on his breast appear’d The monster, fierce as when ’twas spear’d; Now raising high his sounding lance He bade the trembling crowds advance, And march’d with martial stride; But none durst follow in the van With that gigantic-bodied man!—