Within reach, as it seemed, of the long-sought goal,— What sudden sadness touched each soul

To find our host too weak for the siege

Of a place so strong-for disease and the fight
Had thinned the army, and sapped it's might-
No sounds of joy broke forth :—and our Liege
Turned aside to weep-and refused to view
A city his arms must not subdue!

A council was called; and the King and his

peers

Signed a truce with the Foe, for three long years;
Our swords were sheathed-and we marshall'd our train,
And commenced our homeward march again.

"Scarce thirteen rolling moons are o'er,
Since I bade adieu to Judah's shore.
Through many a sunny clime I've stray'd,
And seen full many a fair-hair'd Maid,

Of Greece-the Levant-or Salem's daughter-
Or rarest Pearl of Como's
pure water,
Serenaded by many a Troubadour
Beneath her woodbined lattice ashore,

Or wooed by the lute of the Gondolier

As he glides in his bark o'er the blue lake near
Her trellised villa of eglantine

On an emerald Isle, whence her lamp at e'en,
Glistens forth through the clustering foliage green
-Like Hero's torch, to Leander brave,

Love's Guiding-Star o'er Helle's wave!

}

"And Circassian Beauties, half divine,

The Toast of each Corsair and Brigantine,
Who might court the glance of a Sultan's eye
With the charms of their weird witchery,
As fair at the fabled Houris1 above,-
But I ne'er forgot my English Dove!

I have guarded well my true-love token:

I return to learn that her vows are broken

That her honour is pawned, and false as windAnd her hand to another Lord resign'd!

"For him-the Wretch of the craven heartWho hath wronged me thus, in the vital part,— Were it not that I know his ravish'd prey He shall ne'er enjoy (though won to-day),-. By my red right hand, and my falchion true, (Whose vengeance the Mussulman long shall rue,) I would beard the Leman in his lair,

And brain the perfidious Tiger there:

And his carcase should rot, impaled on high,
The Butt of Contempt and Infamy!

66

My hair is grey, and mine eye appears

Of lack-lustre beam-but not with years;

And my frame, that hath stemmed the fight afar, Is worn and withered-but not with war!

(1) Maids of the Turkish Paradise.

The Crusade is o'er.-The Turk again
Usurps the sway—and our toils were vain,—
And the Lion King, who led our band,

Is a prisoner in a foreign land!

I

weep

for the loss of our conquests brief

I weep for the fate of our royal Chief—
For these, I mourn; but my soul, unbow'd,
Might retain its wonted bearing proud:
Again our hosts may victorious be,

And our captive King once more be free,—
But the ties of Love, once riven and blighted,
Can ne'er, alas! be re-united!

'Tis the falsehood of her I once deem'd true

That has changed my youthful tresses' hue;
"Tis her base return for my constancy
That has seared my heart, and dimmed my eye!
The Eagle Spirit at length is broke,

And cowers to the Vulture Sorrow's stroke:

-Like the rock, that hath braved the stormy blast, By silent waters mined at last!

"Her mien was gay, as her perjured vows

She gave to-day to a treacherous spouse:

To-day she weareth a bridal wreath:

To-morrow she weareth-the robe of death!

To-day she dwelleth in lordly dome:

To-morrow her home-thy home-is, the tomb!"

The Stranger ceased-and his vizor raised:
The heart-struck Fair on his visage gazed:
"Twas the face of her long affianced knight!
O Conscience! What pangs her bosom smite!
Her cheek grows pale-the Warrior's gone-
The Sentinel paceth the court alone—
With silver ray, faint Hesper's star
Illumines the darkened West afar

Night's mantle rests on the turrets grey,
And Silence reigns:-but where are they-
The mail-clad Chief, and the Ladye fair?—
The owl's hoot echoes only there—

The bat on sluggish wing flits by,

And the beetle's dull note murmurs nigh:-
But the false Maid's temples press the sod
Where late the gallant war-horse trod ;
And that martial Form from the Syrian shore-

The Red Cross Knight-is seen no more!

THE MARCH OF THE ENGLISH CRUSADERS.1

HARK to the Warder's note!

List to the Herald's call!

'Tis break of day; and the trumpet's bray

Sounds from the castle-wall!

It wakes a slumbering band

To the din of War's alarms:

A shout up-springs-and the welkin rings-
"To arms! To arms! To arms!"

Unfurl'd to the Morning breeze

St. George's banner waves,

The Standard of England's Christian host-
The Dread of Moorish slaves!

"Tis a Beacon bright, whose cresset light
Hath many a storm withstood-
A red Sign seal'd on a snow-white field—
A Charter, stamp'd with blood!

(1) In the 13th century, and at the close of the reign of Henry III. The scene is laid in one of those baronial castles, so numerous in England in the feudal times. The baron and his vassals, the knights and their retainers, are marshalling their forces, and preparing to join the grand army of Crusaders under Prince Edward, afterwards King Edward I., on the eve of his departure to the Holy Land.