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And with bended knee, and forehead bare, Save its cloud of raven hair, And beautiful as some wild star Come in its glory and light from afar, With his dark eyes flashing stern and bright, And his cheek o'erflooded with crimson light, And the foeman's banner over his head, His first field's trophy proudly spread, Knelt down his boon to name,— The knightly spurs he so well might claim: And a softness stole to eyes, As he bade the new-made knight arise.— From his own belt he took the brand, And gave it into hand, And said it might a memory yield Of his father's friend, and his own first field.