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THE PILGRIM.
And Palmer, grey Palmer, by Galilee's wave,
Oh! saw you Count Albert, the gentle and brave,
When the crescent waxed faint, and the red cross rushed on,
Oh! saw you him foremost on Mount Lebanon.
******
The ladye sat in her lonely tower,—
She woke not her lute, she touched not a flower;
Though the lute wooed her hand with its silver string,
And the roses were rich with the wealth of spring:
But she thought not of them, for her heart was afar,
It was with her knight in the Holy war.
She look’d in the west;—it was not to see
The crimson and gold of the sky and sea,
Lighted alike by the setting sun,
As rather that day than night were begun;
