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Then sought the field of death anew,— Little was there for knight to do.

That field was strewn with dead and dying; And mark'd he there lying Upon the turbann'd heap, which told How dearly had his life been sold. And yet on his curl'd lip was worn The impress of a soldier's scorn; And yet his dark and glazed eye Glared its defiance stern and high: His head was on his shield, his hand Held to the last his own red brand. Felt all too proud for grief In gazing on the gallant chief: So, thought he, should a warrior fall, A victor dying last of all.