He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade?
—A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid.
All rent and stain’d his broider’d Moorish vest,
The corslet shatter’d on his bleeding breast;
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain’d,
With life’s last force convulsively retain’d;
His plumage soil’d with dust, with crimson dyed,
And the red lance in fragments by his side:
He lies forsaken—pillow’d on his shield,
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal’d.