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THE WARRIOR.
249
Proudly that trumpet sweeps thy hills,
Land of the sword and shrine,
It calls the soldier of the cross
To fight for Palestine.
It roused one tent, which stood apart
Within the barrier made
By many a green and creeping shrub
And one tall palm-tree's shade.
It roused a warrior and his bride—
His bride! What doth she there?
Oh, rather ask, when led by love,
What will not woman dare?
Said I, her timid nature was
Like her cheek's timid hue;
But fearful though that nature be,
She hath her courage too.
Go ask the fever couch, the cell
Of guilt; she hath no part
In courage of the head and hand,
She hath that of the heart.
