Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/184

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Till droop’d the valiant infidel, fainter his blows and few, While fiercer from the combat still the youthful Christian grew.

falls, his sever'd head, it is young ’s prize: But dizzily the field of death floats in the victor's eyes. His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his white lips gasp for breath: Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the victory and death.

He raised him on his arm, "My page, come thou and do my will; Canst thou not see a turban'd band upon yon distant hill?