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As rose from his unrest He knew falcon crest; And the red cross that shone like a glory afar, Told the warrior was vow'd to the holy war.

"Ay, this," thought, "is the strife To make my sacrifice of life; What is it now to me that fame Shall brighten over name; There is no gentle heart to bound, No cheek to mantle at the sound: Lady's favour no more I wear,— My heart, my helm—oh! what are there? A blighted hope, a wither'd rose. Surely this warfare is for those Who only of the victory crave A holy but a nameless grave."