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He stood alone, the last of his race, With the cold wide world for his dwelling-place. The home of his fathers gone to decay,— All but their memory was pass'd away; No one to welcome, no one to share The laurel he no more was proud to wear: He came in the pride of his war success But to weep over very desolateness. They pointed him to a barren plain Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain; They showed him the lowly grave, where slept The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept; But they could not show him one living thing To which his withered heart could cling....

Amid the warriors of Palestine Is one, the first in the battle-line;