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Line after line of spears, Lance after lance, upon the horizon's verge, Like festal lights from cities bursting up, Doth skirt the plain!—In faith, a noble host!

The Moor hath turn'd him from our walls, to front Th' advancing might of Spain!

Castile! Castile!

What shouts of joy are these?

Hail, chieftain! hail! Thus ev'n in death 'tis given thee to receive The conqueror's crown!—Behold our God hath heard, And arm'd himself with vengeance!—Lo ! they come! The lances of Castile!

I knew, I knew Thou wouldst not utterly, my God, forsake