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Flushed with the hope of high desire,
 * He buckled on his sword,

To dare the rampart ranged with fire,
 * Or where the thunder roared;

Into the smoke and flame he went,
 * For God's great cause to die—

A youth of heaven's element,
 * The flower of chivalry.

This was the gallant faith, I trow,
 * Of which the sages tell;

On such devotion long ago
 * The benediction fell;

And never nobler martyr burned,
 * Or braver hero died,

Than he who worldly honor spurned
 * To serve the Crucified.

And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere
 * May pass beyond the pale,

And wander over moor and mere
 * To find the Holy Grail;