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Pour'd forth his conquering spirit!—'Twas the breeze From your own mountains which came down to wave This banner of his battles, as it droop'd Above the champion's death-bed. Nor even then Its tale of glory closed.—They made no moan O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung7 , But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war Told when the mighty pass'd!—They wrapt him not With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's form In war-array, and on his barbed steed, As for a triumph, rear'd him; marching forth In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls, Beleaguer'd then, as now. All silently The stately funeral moved:—but who was he That follow'd, charging on the tall white horse, And with the solemn standard, broad and pale, Waving in sheets of snow-light?—And the cross, The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield, And the fierce meteor-sword?—They fled, they fled! The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, Were dust in his red path!—The scimetar Was shiver'd as a reed!—for m that hour The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain, Was arm'd betimes!—And o'er that fiery field