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Rh

Was like a slaughter-pit, of green Could not one single trace be seen; The Moslem warrior stretch'd beside The Christian chief by whom he died; And by the broken falchion blade The crooked scymeter was laid.

And gallantly had borne The red cross through the field that morn, When suddenly he saw a knight Oppress'd by numbers in the fight: Instant his ready spear was flung, Instant amid the band he sprung;— They fight, fly, fall,—and from the fray He leads the wounded knight away! Gently he gain'd his tent, and there He left him to the leech's care;