THE LAST CRUSADER

Slowly The Last Crusader eyed The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain, And thought of those whose blood had dyed The earth with crimson streams in vain! He thought of that sublime array, The hosts, that over land and deep The hermit marshall'd on their way, To see those towers, and halt to weep! Resign'd the loved, familiar lands, O'er burning wastes the cross to bear, And rescue from the Paynim's hands No empire save a sepulchre! And vain the hope, and vain the loss, And vain the famine and the strife; In vain the faith that bore the cross, The valour prodigal of life. And vain was Richard's lion-soul, And guileless Godfrey's patient mind— Like waves on shore, they reach'd the goal, To die, and leave no trace behind! "O God!" The Last Crusader cried, "And art Thou careless of Thine own? For us Thy Son in Salem died, And Salem is the scoffer's throne! "And shall we leave, from age to age, To godless hands the holy tomb? Against Thy saints the heathen rage— Launch forth Thy lightnings, and consume!" Swift as he spoke, before his sight A form flashed, white-robed, from above; All Heaven was in those looks of light, But Heaven, whose native air is love. "Alas!" the solemn vision said, "Thy God is of the shield and spear— To bless the quick and raise the dead, The Saviour-God descended here! "Ah! know'st thou not the very name Of Salem bids thy carnage cease— A symbol in itself to claim God's people to a house of peace! "Ask not the Father to reward The hearts that seek, through blood, the Son; O warrior! never by the sword The Saviour's Holy Land is won." Edward Bulwer Lytton

Deep is the bliss of the belted knight, When he kisses at dawn the silken glove, And goes, in his glittering armour dight, To shiver a lance for his ladye-love! Lightly he couches the beaming spear; His mistress sits with her maidens by, Watching the speed of his swift career With a whispered prayer, and a murmured sigh. Winthrop Mackworth Praed