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Out upon the desert waste.
Christian, let thy courage fail not !
Cheer thy feeble, fainting band !
Ere the noontide, if they quail not,
Yon proud sheikh shall bite the sand !
He hath marked his swift pursuer,
Noted every shining lance,
And behold ! their number fewer
Than the third of those that glance
At his bidding ! Lo, he turneth,
Stays his followers in their flight,
Bids them count the foe he spurneth,
And address them to the fight.

While the trembling girl he places
In a faithful vassal's care,
She hath seen where Melleff chases
Hotly through the quivering air.
She hath heard the fatal order :
"If, by chance thy chieftain fall,