THE CRUSADER.
He is come from the land of the sword and shrine,
From the sainted battles of Palestine;
The snow-plumes wave o'er his victor crest,
Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast.
His courser is black as black can be,
Save the brow star white as the foam of the sea,
And he wears a scarf of 'broidery rare,
The last love-gift of his lady fair:
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