Nor worn with lips devout the rock-hewn grot For these I leave my home; for these I stake The trunk that yields nor fruit nor foliage now? Fool! says the crowd. Theirs is the foolish part! Not in one spot can the soul's food be found; No!-to the poet thought is bread, his heart Lives on his Maker's works around. Alphonse de Lamartine. Tr. Anon. L THE LAST CRUSADER. EFT to the Saviour's conquering foes, The land that girds the Saviour's grave; Where Godfrey's 'crosier-standard rose, There, o'er the gently broken vale, There still the olives silver o'er The dimness of the distant hill; There still the flowers that Sharon bore, 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, Resigned the loved familiar lands, O'er burning wastes the cross to bear, And vain the hope, and vain the loss, And vain was Richard's lion-soul, "O God!" the last Crusader cried, 66 '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, 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! "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, Lord Lytton. PALESTINE. AIL to the hills where Desolation weeps, HA Yet holy watch untiring Memory keeps! Hail to the vales where Plenty laughs no more, Or mantling vines display their purple store, But every rock with history's wreath is crowned, And every barren glen is hallowed ground! Hail to the streams that flow not now along Blessed by the saint, or charmed by holy song, Ah! who so cold can gaze, and wander here, Nor feel his bosom thrill, nor shed a tear? Thrill, when he thinks of glorious times of yore, And weep to know that glory ever o'er. The ground he treads a thousand saints have trod, Nicholas Michell. SYRIA. BLOW, gentle airs! but on your balmy wing I ask no flowery tribute of the spring, No spicy buds in Antioch's vale that bloom, Lord Morpeth. |