Classic Poem

The first he smote so hugely on the crest,
That his bright, burgonet was cleft in tway;
Nor here did ruthless sword of Paynim rest,
But in his brain did deep itself embay;
Nor can the second stony death gainsay,
The thrilling point is at his bosom bent,
And to his throbbing heart it finds its way;
The third, tho' certes he was knight most gent,
Was cloven down to waist, O grievous monument!