The Crusades, and other poems

Front matter

I CRUSADES, AND OTHER POEMS. BY JOHN BREAKENRIDGE, OF OSGOODE HALL, BARRISTER-AT-LAW. The humble boon was soon obtained ; The daring minstrel audience gained. Perchance he wished his boon denied ; For when to tune his harp he tried, His trembling hand had lost the ease Which marks security to please : KINGSTON: PUBLISHED BY JOHN ROWLANDS. MDCCCXLVI. . TO THE EIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES THEOPHILUS, BARON METCALFE, OF FERNHILL, IN THE COUNTY OF BERKS, LATE GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF BRITISH NORTH AMERICA, etc, etc, etc, WHOSE UNIVERSAL LIBERALITY, AND MANY ENNOBLING QUALITIES, HAVE RENDERED HIS MEMORY DEAR TO THE PEOPLE OP CANADA, THIS VOLUME IS, BY PERMISSION, RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

Preface

In undertaking to submit a volume of Poems to my subscribers, I have imposed a task upon myself from which, perhaps, more mature reflection would have induced me to abstain. I sliould be happy to think that each individual subscriber would find in this volume something to please or interest him. My muse must speak for herself. With the modest Kirke White (though with much more reason for being bashful ) I am inclined to exclaim — No hand, the diapason o'er, Well skilled, I throw with sweep sublime ; For me no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Or build the polished rhyme. I feel that " The Crusades " is a very inappro priate title for the volume ; but the truth is, the longer Poem, which I have placed at the end, remained unfinished when the Prospectus was published. In the final Poem (Laiza) I have hazarded de scriptions founded solely upon my reading ; and should I, in such things, have fallen into error, I hope a lenient judgment will be exercised.

"The Highlands of /Ethiopia, " by Major Com wallis Harris ; Stephens' " Incidents of Travel in Egypt, Arabia Petræa, etc."; "The Crescent and the Cross " ; Bruce's Travels ; and " George," a VI Novel by Alexandre Dumas ; together with Victor Hugo's "Bug Jargal "; Lewis's West Indies ; Lamar tine's "Voyage en Orient"; and "Life in the New World, by Seatsfield " ; have each in turn afforded me some information or hint on the subject-matter of the Poem. I claim an indulgent criticism from my readers as a Canadian. Although I cannot expect that great faults will be passed over in silence, I hope that this consideration will shield me from reproof. To those who have honoured me by their subscription, I beg leave to return my sincere acknowledg ments, And remain, Their obedient servant, The Author. TABLE OF CONTENTS.

Part I

@.l)e (Irnsabcs. The Battle of Dorylæum, 11 Crusaders' Hymn before Jerusalem, 18 Siege of Antioch, 20 Battle of Antioch, 33 TheTrobadour to the captive Richard Cœur de Lion, 44 Battle of Tiberias, 47 The Amulet, 49 Notes to The Crusades, 61

Part II

Illustrations of Bible fjistorn. The Deluge, 65 Tower of Babel, 68 Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, .... 71 Abraham's Faith, 73 Plague of the Locusts, 75 Passage of the Red Sea, 76 Discovery of the promised land, and death of Moses, 82 Ruth and Naomi, 84 The Witch of Endor, . 88 The Judgment of Solomon, . .

Part III

ittiscellaneons poems. Napoleon Buonaparte and the French Revolution, 101 Ecce Homo, 133 Canada : a Prize Poem at Upper Canada College, 134 Medea to Jason, 141 The Angry Poet : an Epistle from Claud Halcro to the 'locum tenens' of dledrich knickerbocker, 153 The Mysterious Visitant — a Ballad, .... 156 Youth, 166 The Passage of the Beresina, 174 The Litany of the Church of England, versified, 177 Spring Gales, 184 My Mother, 188 Twilight and Home, 189 The Falls of Niagara, 190 The Lay of the Clock, 191 Notes to the Poem on Napoleon Buonaparte, . 198

Part IV

Laiza : a Tale of Slavery, in three cantos, . . Œfic ©rusaTrcs. THE BATTLE OF DORYLÆUM, IN THE VALLEY OF GORGON.1 'Tis at eve — in the valley the white tents are spread ; The sun, swift descending, beams lustrously red ; Flashing here, gleaming there, on the golden hued clouds. Ere the shadow of night the horizon enshrouds. Unharnessed, the chargers all heated, behold The river so bright through the green meadows rolled ; Gleam their eyes — heave their chests — all in chorus they neigh, And fain would career to the waters away ! Pennants gay, nodding plumes, gorgeous banners are there, And the bugle note floats on the still evening air : Till at length all the tumult of armed thousands flown, Naught is heard but the tramp of the sentry alone. * * * * * While they sleep — while they dream — afar off in the plain, To the sound of the cymbals, the trumpets refrain, The Sultan rides on with the speed of the wind, And spearmen in myriads careering behind !

Snowy white are their turbans, but brighter the play Of the crescent, there gleaming beneath the moon's ray ! Thousands crowding on thousands, they rush evermore, Banner bearers and war-breathing music before. * * * # # * 'Tis morning — the sun on that vale ever fair Pours a rich flooding light through the balm-breathing air ; Tents are struck, flags unfurled — all is life-like again, As the host of the Christians moves on through the plain. In advance ride the Cavaliers, gallant and bold, Clad in hauberks of steel, wearing helmets of gold ; On they ride, gaily prancing, their hearts beating high, Ever ready in battle, all fearless to die. Soon crowning the hills that rise frowning before, They see the proud Turk's marshalled legions once more ; They hear the loud clash of the cymbals resound, Wildly blent with the war-breathing clarion's sound !

All wondering they halt — but their hearts know no fear : Exulting they bound when the foemen are near ; Though thousands on thousands, in myriads they lie, Like the wild beasts that crouch on their victims to fly. Now advancing, all glorious, with banners outspread, Comes the host of the Cross, by Lord Boemond led. Hark ! the bugle-call sounds for the stragglers return ! And the Knights for the battle with fierce ardour burn. O ! why in that hour was De Bouillon not there, In the danger, the toil, and the glory to share . Far away to the Eastward his squadrons advance, Never dreaming of work for the falchion or lance ! All at once comes a gallant Knight, breathless and pale, And silently points — upward points through the vale ; 'Tis enough — " To the rescue, De Bouillon !" they cry, And wheeling, their chargers at full gallop fly ! * # * # # # Hark ! the thunder-stamp coming of squadrons that bound ; The earth reeling, trembles and groans at the sound ; Down the Moslemah dash, like the Parthians of old, A legion of horse, decked with housings of gold.

Their scimitars gleam in the sun, waved on high ; And borne on the air comes their fierce battle cry ; Like the breakers of ocean, storm driven, they roar, " II Allah ! II Allah !" — they shout evermore ! O ! who in the path of their legions shall stand, Unnumbered, like grains of the surf beaten sand ', Vain, vain seems the valour of Christendom there : Vain the prowess of Knight — vain the fervour of prayer f 0, no ! never vain ! Lo ! dismounted they kneel, The Knights of the Cross, in their armour of steel ; A moment, and then to the saddle they spring, And forth in defiance their brave banners fling There, shining resplendent in crimson, behold ! The Cross on their standards of silver unrolled ; There the flag of the Templars, alternately rayed Black and white — the death bearer — is proudly displayed.

" Fair to friends, fierce to foes" — lo ! their banner unfolds^ And straight in the pathway of danger it holds ; O'er each cuirass is worn a fair robe, virgin white, Where the Cross is embroidered, refulgent and bright. They turn not, nor flee ; iron-visaged they stand, On the foe every eye, on the lance every hand ; While down, like a thunder-bolt coming, they hear The trampling of squadrons, the wild battle cheer ! There, too, the Hospitallers stand side by side, Whose robes, dark and mournful, the steel hauberk hide ; Each Knight, nobly emulous, burning to bear His part in the contest — the glory to share. Brace your arms, noble Knights! nerve your hearts, gallant men ! Sternly struggle, as though ye should ne'er fight again ! " God wills it ! God wills it !" to-day shall ye see The armies of Soliman tremble and flee !

One moment of silence ! — and then through the sky The death-dealing shafts of the Osmanlis fly ; They whistle, they rustle, swift-winged in their flight, Bearing down the proud charger, unhorsing the Knight ! Beau-seant ! Beau-seant ! '2 En avant, brave Knights ! Where the foemen are thickest, the bold Templar fights ; At that cry, swift descending, each lance is in rest, To the flanks of their chargers the golden spur pressed ! O'er their helmets the gay plumes are waving in light, And the sun on their armour shines lustrous and bright ; Like an avalanche hurled, on the Moslems they dash, And meet them at length with an earth-quaking crash ! Down topple their turbans, their banners go down, Their leaders have turned, and the bravest have flown ; But still, as they fly, they their arbalasts bend : Retreating, a shower of arrows they send.

Swift their steeds as the wind ; light and agile they leap, So that far from the death-dealing lances they keep ; Till the Knights, worn and wearied, no longer essay To bear down the ranks of their flying array. They halt — form in line — every lance still in rest, The steel corslet gleaming on each noble chest ; While, rallying afresh to the contest, behold ! All brilliant with crimson, all glittering with gold, Still squadron on squadron the Moslems rush in, Like the tempest-lashed ocean, with roaring and din ; Their ataghans flash, like a broad sea of steel ; The Templars are stricken — Hospitallers reel ! O, woe ! for the brother of Tancred is slain ! The flower of our army lies stretched on the plain ; Lo ! Tancred himself in the melee is lost, Alone in the hands of the Saracen host !

To the rescue, Tarentum ! Tarentum ! they cry ; And backward, affrighted, the Moslemah fly ; He is saved — but thy banner, Otranto, is borne Afar by the Moslems, all sullied and torn ! All at once from the rear echo cries of despair, And the heavens are lit with a funeral glare ; The Knights' gay pavilions are gleaming with flame ! The women are crying in anguish and shame ! Lo ! the Turk with his cavalry comes from the rear, With the flashing of sabres, with victory's cheer ; From the camp the death-wailings all dismally rise ; At the breast of its mother the sweet infant dies ; Dies the maiden in shame, by her ravisher's sword, While kneeling her prayers are for mercy outpoured ; For vengeance, for vengeance, 0, God ! hear our prayer In this hour of terror, of woe, and despair ! Hark ! hark ! from the field gallant Normandy's shout : " Rally ! rally ! brave Knights, charge again — wheel about !

O! Boemond, fly not — Apulia's afar : Turn, for honor or death, turn again to the war ! " Turn Tancred ! Otranto lies far from your ken ; Whither fly you 1 0, charge, gallant Tancred, again ! Bring hither my banner — ' God wills it !' I cry, 'Tis better to fall, than dishonoured to fly !" Shouting, Normandy ! Normandy ! fiercely he rides ; And Tancred returning, the glory divides. Hark ! again the blows ring on their armour of proof ; Till again from their lances the foe holds aloof. See dust on the hills to the Eastward arise ! In volumes extending, still upward it flies ; And banners, and pennons, and lances are there : 'Tis the army of Godfrey — the red Cross they bear ! Spurring on as for life, dashing down from the hills, Their war-cry, resounding, the atmosphere fills ; One by one, two by two, streaming onward, they pour By thousands, by myriads — more, evermore.

O ! joy to the hearts of the gallant and brave, Who lingered, despairing, their honour to save ; To the rescue De Bouillon bears gallantly down, And the Turks to the four winds of Heaven are strown. 0 ! brilliant, and fearful, and proud the array Of the phalanx of steel, as it sweeps on its way ; Down hurling the Moslems, resistless it rolls To the vultures their bodies — to Hades their souls ! c God wills it ! God wills it ! resounds o'er the plain, Dorylæum is won — Turkish valour is vain ; Their bravest are doomed in the valley to die ; The living are fain from the Templars to fly ! CRUSADERS' HYMN BEFORE JERUSALEM.3 Now onward ! for our banners in the wind are waving free ; The Sultan's troops arc streaming forth like to a surging sea ; " God wills it !" is our battle cry — Jerusalem our prize !

We couch the lance, we wield the sword, beneath our monarch's eyes ! Hark ! from the city of our God, our Saviour's hallowed shrine, The Saracen's bold music floats, the silver crescents shine ! The Infidels have stalled their steeds within her sacred walls ; To draw the sword, our Christian faith, our Knightly honor calls! The sun is up ; on tower and wall he gilds the flashing spear, But the Lord of Hosts is with us ! Shall Christian warriors fear 1 Raise not the lance, nor stay the sword from slaughter of the foe ! Peace offerings to the Holy Shrine, the Moslems' blood shall flow ! Think on the weary pilgrim, o'er the long and toilsome way, Who dragged his limbs to Salem's walls, his pious vows to pay : Just Heaven ! the blighting breath of war surrounds the sacred fane ; His humble prayer is laughed to scorn — his march of toil is vain !

Look on the Holy City, that hath kissed a Saviour's feet ! E'en there the unbelieving dog with scorn our prayers would greet ! Then spur the steed, and brace the aim, and shout defiance high, For the trumpet-call hath sounded, and the turbaned host is nigh ! They come ! they come ! with hourra wild, and many a bristling spear, And the war-cry of the Paynim band breaks on the startled ear ! They call, with words of mystery, high-shouted, earnest prayer, On Mahomet, their Prophet false, his followers to spare ; But we unto the living God our hopeful incense send, While the shouts of rival hosts with words of adoration blend ! Lo ! in their van the crescent of bold Saladin afar, Gleams brightly from the lesser host, and lights them to the war ! But our lion-hearted monarch waves aloft his trusty sword !

Then onward ! we will triumph in our arm of strength, the Lord! THE SIEGE OF ANTIOCH. With glittering spears, with banners sheen, And all the glorious pomp of war ; With valor in each Knightly mien, The Christian chivalry from far ; From every vine-clad hill of France, And from the banks of lovely Rhine, From Italy and Spain, advance The warrior pilgrims to the shrine Of him who on the Holy Hill Of Calvary his blood outpoured, Oblation meet the wrath to still That o'er the seed of Adam loured : And Britain, sea-girt Isle, hath sent Her heroes in the cause to fight ; All feuds in one great purpose blent, They march to battle for the right. Godfrey De Bouillon first behold, In panoply of burnished steel ; Deftly he doth the saddle hold, Nor may his weight the war-horse feel : In council calm, in action fierce, And as Numidian lion bold, He can in war the vanguard pierce, In council, wisdom's plans unfold.

In former days, when Pilgrims told, In castle hall, or lady's bower, Of deeds that made the blood run cold, Wrought by the bearded Moslem's power, On those wTho to the Holy Shrine, With sandal shoon, and scallop shell, Went to implore the aid divine, Pardon, perchance, to ask as well ; De Bouillon by the rede would swear, That not with staff and scrip would he The cross to Palæstina bear ! His staff the steel-capped lance should be ! And when the glorious tidings burst O'er Christendom, and Europe armed, Among the Crucigerents first, His standard borne, the foe alarmed ! Next him the zealous Hermit, he Who first the Cross to Europe preached, Till thousands, in a surging sea, Zealots, the sacred banner reached ! His features marked, and open brow, The signs of fervent truth unfold ; Sackcloth denotes the Pilgrim's vow ; His sword, the Priest in battle bold !

In order next, a gallant Knight, Rides Hugh, the Count of Vermandois, Blood Prince of France, and in the fight Ever the first his sword to draw ! Then Boemond, Tarentum 's Prince, Who, learning 'neath Amalfi's wall The glorious cause, unsheathed his sword, And giving up his broad lands all, His battle-axe on high he swung, Till on his armour crashing there The ponderous blow descending rung ; Thenceforth he vowed the cross to bear. But long 'twould take their names to tell, Each noble and each gallant Knight Who now the Christian vanguard swell, When, tried in many an Eastern fight, In serried ranks, with pennons gay, Rich streaming on the sun-bright air, As from the lances' heads they play, To Antioch their forces bear ! From sounding trump, from clarion shrill, From beat of drum, and cymbal clash, A warlike strain the air doth fill, Blent with their heavy armour's crash On ! where the towering palm on high, Untouched, its giant leaves expands ; On ! 'neath the burning, sultry sky ; On ! o'er the deserts scorching sands !

They spare not spur, nor draw the rein ; Before them Antioch 's walls extend : Lo ! rising from the plain beneath, They reach the mountain's summit high ; And bristling, like a thorny wreath, Their walls embattled flout the sky ! Still dauntlessly the Christian host On o'er the Iron Bridge hath passed : The Moslems fly ! The outworks lost, They seek the strong-walled town at last. Three hundred thousand men encamp 'Round the beleaguered city now ; And day and night the sentries' tramp Echoes with measured tread and slow. Now Catapult and Mangonel, With rushing sound, their missiles hurl, With noise as when the fiends of Hell 'Gainst Heaven did their flags unfurl ! Each outward wall the Moslems crown ; The towers repel the armed mass ! Borne back, the Christian warriors own, Ere won the ramparts, time will pass. 'Tis night — and on the tented field, Mid revelry and wassail high, Hung up the sword, unloosed the shield, The waning hours unheeded fly.

The night that should be spent in prayer, Prayer for the good and holy cause, From every tent the torch-lights glare ; While near the wily foeman draws ! The night that should be spent in prayer — While sentries keep their watch and ward — That night a wild debauch is there ; The sentries sleep upon the sward ! That night, within the town, collect The Turks to sally on the foe ; They to the gate their course direct, Thence issue, silent, firm and slow ! ], > Then raising high their battle shout, On, with impetuous rush, they pour ; Like lightning-flash the revellers rout ; Then seek the city's walls once more ! 'Tis morning now. Th' affrighted camp In arms salute the rising sun ; And many a mail-clad warrior's tramp Tells of the midnight mischief done ! Sullen, within his gorgeous tent, From whence his Knightly pennon streams His strength with midnight revel spent, Pale 'neath the morning's early beams, Sits Boemond, Tarentum's Prince ; Enthusiast once ; but now, at last, His eyes unholy thoughts evince ; His early zeal hath from him passed.

Before him now six captives bend, Spies from the Moslem city, found Dressed in the garb of seeming friend, That in the Christian camp abound. " Whence come ye, and what do ye here 1 " Flushing with sudden rage he cries : Trembling falls on them now, and fear : None to the wrathful Knight replies. " Now, by the Holy Virgin ! you Your tongues shall find," he says, " in hell Ye Moslem dogs ! Your prophet too A savoury feast this morn shall smell ! " Straightway th' affrighted Turks behold A frightful funeral pile upraised, 'Round which the lambent flames are rolled, As if before them Hades blazed. Kneeling, with piteous cries, they pray For mercy in that fearful hour ! But still, in rolling volumes, play The flames, that lights their final hour. But Tancred then his bright blade draws : " Nay, by the rood, ye shall not stain With crimes like this, the Christian cause !

Pardon and send them back again." Flushes Lord Boemond's face with rage : " What, ho ! mine Esquires !" he cries ; " Bring here my sword, my trusty Page ; I'll see that each foul Moslem dies !" With sudden flash, like lightning gleam, Th' uplifted falchions quick descend, And ere the deed could Tancred dream, The Moslems' souls to Hades wend. " Now, by my Knightly faith !" — thus cried The generous Knight, and crashing threw His gauntlet to the earth — " The dead May never speak — the living do ! Prince of Tarentum ! By that cross On which thy sacred vow was sworn, That lands and gold to thee were dross, Since thou the holy badge hadst borne ; I tell thee thou hast sullied now Thy name — thy faith — thy brethren too. And were it not that all must bow Their haughty will, the will to do D ■>■> Of him, to battle for whose right The Paynim land in arms we seek, Morning or evening, noon or night, To each, to all thy friends I'd speak Of this thy foul and hasty deed."

" Nay !" cried Lord Boemond, " speak thy fill ! Nay ! never stint thy Knightly speech ! Such words shall never thwart my will, Though priests, or fools, or fiends, should preach Lord Tancred heeded not the taunt, But, scornful, turned him to depart ; His was no vain or empty vaunt : His speech became a soldier's heart. " Now !" cried Tarentum's angry Prince, " Burn ye the felon corpses there ! To friends or foes I will evince I heed not either threat or prayer." Straight on the funeral pile they cast The Moslems' bodies, half alive ; And, as with the Sirocco's blast, The withering flames around them drive. O ! righteous God ! forgive the sin That thus thy follower hath wrought ; For 'mid the camp's unholy din, Some fiend of Hell begat the thought ! Alas ! the midnight revel brings Disaster in its dismal train : First the destroying angel wings His flight athwart th' unwholesome plain.

Now quick the stagnant marsh exhales Thick noisome mists ; and the hot sun Seems, while through upper air he sails, His course 'mid liquid fire to run. The king of terrors spreads his veil ; Th' avenging angel strikes the blow. They die by hundreds : Then the wail Of anguish, mournfully and slow, Rises from forth the stricken host. The warrior feels his strength is naught, By famine and by sickness lost : By prayer, at length, 'tis sought. Treason within the Christian camp ; Despair, and cowardice, and flight ! Hundreds by day and night decamp, And dastards shun the coming fight. De Melun, and the Hermit bold, The kindling spark of Europe's zeal — Their valor gone — their hearts grown cold — At midnight from th' encampment steal. Next morn, when missed, a mighty din Rises within the stricken camp ; Murmurs both loud and fierce begin ; The rattling arms — the charger's tramp !

And soon a mounted troop appears ; With falcon swoop it scours the plain, Till, guarded by this score of spears, The traitors are brought back again. ■> 'Tis mid-day : On the tented field The Christian host is marshalled there ; From glittering casque, and polished shield The sun's bright rays are flashing fair. Forth, from amid the silent ranks, With downcast eyes, and blushing red, While at each step the iron clanks, The guilty fugitives are led : Shame on their brows hath set its seal ; Their eyes they may not lift again ; Each now doth poignant anguish feel, That thus his honor he should stain. Alas ! for the bold Hermit's zeal, That reared the cross in Europe high ; Alas ! for Count De Melum's heel, Knocked off his spurs of Knighthood lie. Silent, the Christian host looks on, And gleams distrust from every eye : Not thus the sacred cause is won ; Than thus to live, 'twere better die.

Before th' assembled Chieftains now, Prone, on the earth, the traitors lie ; And, murmuring, each repeats the vow, That each must take, or each must die. " Here, on the holy cross, we swear, Come weal, come woe, whate'er betide, We faithfully the cross will bear ; Foremost against the foe we'll ride, Till firmly upon Salem's walls, Victorious, we our banners plant ; 'r Until the Sultan's prowess falls ; Until no Saracen shall haunt The City where a Saviour died." Aid for the famine stricken host ! Lo ! to Saint Simeon comes a fleet ; Safe, although sorely tempest tossed ; The Latins soon their brethren greet. For Antioch they inarch. Alas ! A straggling and unwarlike crowd : When, as they gain a rocky pass, They hear the Turkish bugles loud. Down, like the arrow from the bow, With lightning speed, the Moslems bear ; And swift they deal th' unerring blow ; Nor age, nor youth, nor sex they spare.

Down, as the wheat in harvest time Beneath the mower's sickle falls ; Down, as to prayer, at evening chime, When from the mosque the muezzin calls The followers of Mahomet bend : So, 'neath the fiery Moslems' lance The unresisting Christians fall ; Till from the rear-guard quick advance Lord Boemond's Knights, at bugle call. Backward, the Paynim band they drive ; Then quick retreat — then turn again ; And fighting bravely, still they strive The Christian camp unharmed to gain. Once there — " To arms ! to arms ! " they cry ; " The foe to Antioch wends his way ; Arm ! arm ! and let our banners fly : Turn out ! turn out ! in strength to-day ! " Soon, in hot haste, doth Tancred mount, And from his Esquire takes his lance ; And Knights five hundred you may count, Who with him 'gainst the foe advance : With speed of wind they prick their way Out, and across the level plain : They see the gleaming crescents play, Hastening the city walls to gain.

Now on, by gallant Tancred led, They rush, in one firm phalanx knit ; Till half the turbaned host lie dead, And many a Turk the dust hath bit. There, like a meteor, streams the brand Of Tancred on the evening air ; Where'er he waves his red right hand, Death to the foeman follows there. From hill to hill the Paynims fly For safety — but their flight is vain : With gleaming swords, uplifted high, The Knights come thundering in their train I They reach the bridge — but, woful day ! There, too, the red cross banners wave ; There, too, the Christian bugles play ; There, too, they meet a yawning grave : God shrive their souls ! Five thousand men Have perished in that fearful fight ; nay! Their bodies in the Orontes lie ; Their souls are plunged in endless night. 'Tis morn — within the Christian camp, High council keep the Chieftains bold ; The weary days their ardour damp, For still the Turks the ramparts hold.

Then up Lord Boemond stands, and says : Sith ye will make me Antioch's King, The means within my power lays Our host within the walls to bring. Scarce spake he, when throughout the tent A loud and angry murmur creeps ; Swords rattle, sullen brows are bent On him who thus his secret keeps. Quick to his feet De Bouillon springs, And says — " Brave Knights, now say him Who, to his selfish interest clings, Will never faithful lead the way." And Tancred by the rede hath sworn, " 'Tis shame to Europe's chivalry, That thus their camp, by faction torn, Should e'er give place to rivalry." But Boemond, with angry voice, Swears he will ne'er the secret yield, Till, one and all, they make their choice, Him, as the City's Lord, to shield. Long time in fierce debate they spend ; Long time they argue, loud and high ; Till, wearied, they the council end, And Antioch's walls through treason buy. , '■> 'Tis eve. — The armor-forger's son, A traitor, watch and ward doth keep Within the walls ; for prayers are done, And all, save only Ruzebach, sleep. 'Tis midnight. — From the Christian lines Seven hundred Knights, in armour cased March, where the single guard-light shines Within the traitor's watch-tower placed.