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While wandering o'er the ghastly plain, Some mother seeks her child in vain. Ah, War! if bright thy morning's rise, Dark is thine evening sacrifice.

But for the orphan's sacred cause, His sword the Count Leoni draws; And it is for a maiden's right He leads the thickest of the fight. It matters not who soonest fled— Who longest fought—what numbers bled; Enough, that evening's setting sun Reddened above a battle won. Dismounted from his weary steed, That well had served the struggle's need; A page the noble creature led, With panting chest and drooping head.