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And in his arms, and follow'd by his hosts Of shadowy spearmen!—He had left the world From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth, And call'd his buried warriors from their sleep, Gathering them round him to deliver Spain; For Afric was upon her!—Morning broke— Day rush'd through clouds of battle;—but at eve Our God had triumph'd, and the rescued land Sent up a shout of victory from the field, That rock'd her ancient mountains.

Arm! to arms! On to our chief!—We have strength within us yet To die with our blood roused!—Now, be the word, For the Cid's house! [They begin to arm themselves.

Ye know his battle-song? The old rude strain wherewith his bands went forth To strike down Paynim swords!