Pour'd forth his conquering spirit!—'Twas the breeze
From your own mountains which came down to wave
This banner of his battles, as it droop'd
Above the champion's death-bed. Nor even then
Its tale of glory closed.—They made no moan
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung7[1],
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war
Told when the mighty pass'd!—They wrapt him not
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's form
In war-array, and on his barbed steed,
As for a triumph, rear'd him; marching forth
In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls,
Beleaguer'd then, as now. All silently
The stately funeral moved:—but who was he
That follow'd, charging on the tall white horse,
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale,
Waving in sheets of snow-light?—And the cross,
The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield,
And the fierce meteor-sword?—They fled, they fled!
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts,
Were dust in his red path!—The scimetar
Was shiver'd as a reed!—for m that hour
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain,
Was arm'd betimes!—And o'er that fiery field
