Chapter XIX

Sick by a foul and fetid odor made
Recoiled the champion from unequal fray;
Cut off all hope of rescue, he surveyed
Fiercely the danger like a stag at bay:
Where was Te-yos-yu?--she had swooned away,
And hoof-crushed wild-flower of the forest brown
Resembled her as soiled with mould she lay;
Long on the _seeming corpse_ the chief looked down,
For 'twas a sight the cup of his despair to crown.