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Reading new promise in the sky, And hearing Hope, the lark on high.

But what must morning be to those Who sleep impatient of repose, The hand upon the spear and shield Which wait the morrow's glorious field. The tournament, where Venice asks All who delight in honour's tasks. The Count Leoni sees his band With helm on head and spear in hand, And proud, he marked the sunbeams shine Over the long embattled line, And said, exulting, "They are mine!" No chief were he who could have eyed Such soldiers without chieftain's pride!