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The old man watch'd impatiently, till with morn o'er the plain There came a sound of horses' feet, there came a martial train.

But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad from plume or helm of gold, No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the turban's emerald fold. A Moorish herald; six pale heads hung at his saddle-bow, Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew the lines of each fair brow.

"Oh! did they fall by numbers, or did they basely yield?" "Not so; beneath the same bold hand thy children press'd the field.