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Yet high o'er their ranks is their white banner borne, While beneath droops the foeman's, blood-stained and torn. Said not that young warrior thus it should be, When he talked to his of victory? Yet, maiden, weep o'er thy loneliness, Is not yon dark horse riderless? She flew to the gate,—she stood there alone,— Where was he who to meet her had flown? The dirge grew plain as the troop came near,— They bear the young chieftain cold on his bier!