Whate'er that sword takes-in it shears outright, And in the Tartar's side inflicts a wound:
He curses Heaven and raves in such despite, Less horribly the boisterous billows sound.
He now prepares to put forth all his might:
The shield, with argent bird and azure ground, He hurls, with rage transported, from his hand, And grasps with right and left his trenchant brand.