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But rose on the breath of the evening gale, Not the trumpet's salute, but a mournful tale Of treachery, that had betray'd the flower Of the Christian force to the Infidel's power. One came who told he saw fall, Left in the battle the last of all; His helm was gone, and his wearied hand Held a red but a broken brand.— What could a warrior do alone? And felt all hope was gone. Alas for the young! alas for the brave! For the morning's hope, and the evening's grave! And gush'd for him hot briny tears, Such as had not shed for years;— With heavy step and alter'd heart, Again he turn'd him to depart.