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He stood on a mountain, no foeman was near him, Heavy and crimson his banner was waving O'er the plain where his victories were written in blood, And he welcomed the wound whence his life's tide was flowing; For death is the seal to the conqueror's fame.

But the youngest went forth with his lute—and the valleys Were filled with the sweetness that sighed from its strings; Maidens, whose dark eyes but opened on palaces, Wept as at twilight they murmured his words. He sang to the exile the songs of his country, Till he dreamed for a moment of hope and of home;