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But sadness moved him when he gave to his lowly grave,— The grave where the wild flowers were sleeping, And one pale olive-tree was weeping,— And placed the rude stone cross to show A Christian hero lay below.

With the next morning's dawning light Was by the wounded knight. He heard strange tales,—none knew his name, And none might say from whence he came; He wore no cognizance, his steed Was raven black, and black his weed. All owned his fame, but yet they deem'd More desperate than brave he seem'd; Or as he only dared the field For the swift death that it might yield.