Across the trampled field there lies
the mounds of armor, spent and gone
that once, enlivened, fought their king
and all besmeared now lie upon the clay
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Three figures, carried, each from off their cross
as ever watchful priests survey the scene.
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The Old Pretender sits at last
upon the hill he sought to snatch
surveying this, his greatest catch,
and restless squirms to look behind his seat
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“We remember this deceiver said…”
And so with guards they make the tomb secure
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Unnatural stillness seems to rest
like dew upon the battle-ground:
and worried, still, he sits and frets
and runs his darkened mind across the fight
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And just outside the tomb of ancient stone
Divinely counted minutes mark the day
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