In the saddle they have set her,
Off they dash at furious heat.
Gallant heart ! was never braver
On a noble purpose bent.
But, alas ! thou canst not save her,
For thy flagging steed is spent.
Vain the spurring, the caressing !
Like the fire-wave's rolling flow,
On thy track that cloud is pressing —
Thou must turn and face the foe !
Foe — but stay ! whose pennon streameth
High above the smothering haze ?
Whose the armor bright that beameth
Forth with such a ruddy blaze ?
Now, be praise to Him that saveth !
For the right He doth decide.
There Tunisia's banner waveth,
There her noble lord doth ride !