Beside the western sea: a collection of poems

Front matter

ILIBMRY OF CONGRESS, i if ^ ^

I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA, f

BESIDE

Dedication

To the greater glory of God, and the greater honor of His Immaculate Mother, Ills angels, and sauits, those faithful ones whom the King Himself "delighteth to honor," this humble work is most earnestly and reverently dedicated.

" Marie."

San Francisco, California.

Preface

I FIND this preface necessary, as an apology for the unparalleled presumption of which I have been guilty, in collecting and publishing my poor rhymes and metrical attempts. And, in order to excuse myself, I am even fain to cast a portion of the blame on the too partial kindness of those revered friends who have suggested and encouraged the publication above referred to.

Most of the poems contained in this volume have been contributions to Catholic newspapers and periodicals ; and that they have condescended to admit such productions into their columns, is another reason of my audacious attempt at bookmaking.

The only merit these humble rhymes possess is, the intention with which they were written, and which is stated in the dedication, viz.: "The greater glory of God, and the greater honor of His Immaculate Mother, His angels and saints." And as the simple weed blooming by the wayside, and the sparrow uttering its feeble chirp in the meadows, thus present their acceptable tributes of praise to '"the dear All- Father," so may my humble verses be received as a like earnest, though infinitely less worthy, offering.

And if this, my poor mite, given to the cause of truth and virtue, find favor in His sight, then shall I even rejoice that I have sung my simple songs, and woven my garlands of wild verse-flowers, ' ' Beside the Western Sea. "

" Marie."

San Fi'ancisci), California, Feast of the PiiriJicatio:i, February, 1^77-

Introduction

Several poetical pieces have appeared for some time past, in some public journals, under the signature *' Marie," and they seem to have attracted more than ordinary attention. In common with others, I thought they were deservedly praised. Those which I happened to read, appeared to me to reveal the peculiar and, in our days, rare combination of poetical genius and Christian spirit. Hence I was glad to learn that the distinguished authoress consented to review and enlarge her poems, and offer them to the public in a single volume.

And although not born a poet, nor being very partial to poetical compositions, I take pleasure in using my name to introduce this volume, ''Beside the Western Sea," for the following reasons : First, because the lovers of poetry will, in my humble opinion, possess in it a model of rare worth, to encourage them and guide their compositions; and, secondly, because a good poem, like an exquisite painting, when guided by a Christian spirit, is most interesting and beneficial to the reader. It presents the subjects in their true light, it gives them life and animation, it graces them with befitting beauty, engages the attention and admiration of the reader, refireshes his mind with vivid impressions of the true, and gladdens his heart with noble impulses, and a wish for the lovely.

Vlll INTRODUCTION.

I frequently deem it a waste of time to read poetical compositions, because they frequently seem to contain but the repetition of one idea, without entertaining the imagination with any rhetorical flourish ; and so they might be called a sort of heav}^, prosy poetry, tiresome without instructing. And the task is far more unendurable, when the object is an insidious encouragement to passion at the expense of morals. Such disguised attacks on truth and virtue should receive the frowns of all respectable persons. The case in the volume before us seems to be the very opposite ; for, while it presents but Christian subjects, refreshing the reader's mind with precious Christian recollections, it ornaments them with poetic beauty ; it breathes, while instructing, a chaste and pious spirit : it is, I believe, a precious offering to virtue and truth.

qn JOSEPH S. ALEMANY, O. P.,

ArchUshop of San Francisco.

San Francisco, Feast of St. Agatha, 1877

Contents

PAGB.

Dedication -------- iii

Preface -------- v

Prologue

TO THE DRAMA OF

THE CROSS AND THE CRESCENT.

O PICTURED Past ! what privilege to see

Thy golden age of faith and chivalry,

When spell-bound Fancy turns her backward glance

On those proud days of glory and romance !

What wondrous streams, enshrined in rosy light,

What lofty pageants move before her sight !

What visions fair, in swift succession, throng

The brightest scenes of story and of song !

The pomp of tourney, and its knightly train,

The mail-clad hosts that filled the battle-plain;

The fiery steed, whose footstep scorned the ground ;

The moated castle, and its massive wall.

The Christmas holly of the banquet hall;

The yule-log's blaze, the wassail's spicy draught, z

The courtly train that gayly smiled and quaffed ;

The fearless archers of the greenwood free.

The May-day sports beneath the bloom-decked tree.

All these, in " bright confusion," strangely blend —

Framework of visions that can know no end.

XXIV PROLOGUE.

But purer scenes, and holier pictures, too, Circled with halos, rise o'er fancy's view : Fair scenes that history scorns not to record. With comment glad and panegyric word. The gray-robed pilgrim, with his scallop-shell, His sandal-shoon, and staff that aided well In wintry blast, and summer's sultry heat. Still moving on with firm, unfalt'ring feet — Why roams he thus unceasing, day by day ? To what far region leads his cheerless way ? Seeks he the treasures of some golden mine ? Or would he bend at proud ambition's shrine? No ! no ! those faithful feet have longed to stand Within the limits of the Holy Land. He seeks the caskets of a priceless gem : Jerusalem, Nazareth, and Bethlehem ! His infant King he yearnelh to adore. Where sages bowed, and shepherds knelt before. He greets the cottage of the Holy Child In lonely Nazareth, obscure and wild ; And on, beside the Jordan's hallowed stream, Where once the sacred Dove's mysterious gleam Shone o'er the baptized Saviour's lifted head, Still moves the pilgrim's firm, unceasing tread, Till, from the summit of a rocky height, Jerusalem shines upon his longing sight. O ye who cross the mighty deep to tread Where dim Westminster shrines her noble dead ! Who hail the tombs of kings and warriors brave, And linger fondly by the poet's grave ! Say, can ye scorn tJiis pilgrim's bended knee, Upon the sacred height of Calvar}^

PROLOGUE. XXV

Before the dear Redeemer's rocky tomb, And 'mid the olive garden's mystic gloom ? Ah ! 'twas a holy aim, for love divine Guided the pilgrim's path to Palestine. But o'er his way a fearful storm arose : The dreaded forms of cruel Moslem foes, Whose bloody spears sustained their erring cause, And won submission to their Prophet's laws. The faithful Christians felt their fiendish hate, And found a dismal doom — a hapless fate. Insult, oppression, and most grievous wrong — These woes the zealous Christians suffered long. And the vast armies of their paynim foe Still westward swept — a storm of death and woe ; To Christian climes, to Europe's hallowed lands. Nearer and nearer came the savage bands. The guarding shepherd of his Saviour's flock Saw the swift cloud, and heard the tempest-shock ; For the blest Church had shed a holy ray O'er Europe's pagan night and clouded way ; And long those zealous popes had cherished there The op'ning bud of learning, bright and fair. Now must it perish ? Must those blighting bands Destroy the hard-won gems of Christian lands? The cruel torch that burned fair Egypt's lore, Must it consume the Christian sage's store ? The thought was anguish ! and from favored Rome Rose many a prayer for bright religion's home. Heaven sent its answer ! With a heart of flame, And words of might, a holy hermit came. He saw dread foes pollute the sacred shrine, He saw the wrongs of fettered Palestine;

xxvi PROLOGUE.

And through each realm his tireless steps he bent, Repeating his sad story as he went, And urging potent prince and vaUant knight To battle for their safety and the right. They heard his voice — his sacred call obeyed : Armed, with their vassals, for the blest Crusade, And, with the cross upon each noble breast, Mounted their chargers, laid the lance in rest ; And while the battle-cry, " God wills it," rose From every heart, went forth to meet their foes; Resolved, beneath the Christian's holy sign. To battle well for faith and Palestine ; And bid, through strife and peril, gain and loss, The cruel Crescent pale before the Cross !

A DRAMA OF THE FIRST CRUSADE.

ACT L

Scene I. — Before the gates of Jerusalem. Enter Joseph, a pilgrim, and his daugJiter, Mary

Mary. — Now, God be praised, mj father, thou may'st pause ! .

Lo ! here the portal of Jerusalem ! How like a wear}- dream our journey seems ! But He who led his Israelites of old, Safe to their promised land, hath guided iis, Through our long, toilsome wand'rings, hither; but 'Tis not the hour of entrance. We must wait The porter's comTng. Meanwhile, seat thyself Here on this mossy stone. Poor, aged limbs ! Sore need have they of rest.

Joseph. — Nay, nay, my child I

Thus will I take repose. {Kneels.) Here, lowly

bowed Before the holy city of His love, The scene of all His matchless sufferings, Will I adore my Saviour, Sovereign, God! 1 thank Thee, Lord, the pilgrim's prayer is heard 1 The goal is won ! O joy unutterable !

The yearnings of this heart are satisfied :

To look upon Thy loved Jerusalem,

O'er whose proud stubbornness Thy tears have

flowed ; To follow where Thy blood-marked footsteps went, Thou thorn-crowned Monarch! o'er the royal load Of pain and anguish to Thy mystic throne— The cross Thy creatures reared on Calvary. ( Ah, rocky height ! henceforth most fruitful soil, Bearing bright blossoms of redeeming grace 1) Ay, and to kneel before Thy sepulchre, Whose narrow limits could not fetter Thee^ When Thy sweet work was done. This boon, dear

Lord, Thou knowest how, through all these weary years. It was the ceaseless burden of my prayer ; For I believed that nearer unto Thee My soul could come — could win a clearer sense, A deeper knowledge, of the priceless gifts Thy love hath purchased, if these feet could stand Upoji the soil once watered by Thy blood. And hallowed by Thy travel- w^earied steps ; If the last glances of these age-dimmed eyes Might rest upon those consecrated spots, The scenes of earth's most wondrous tragedy, Her Maker's death of agony. And now, Beyond this gate, the blessed recompense Of one poor pilgrim's gladly-suffered toils. The fair reality of his fond dreams — Jerusalem, with all her peerless wealth Of hallowed shrines reposes.

Enter Peter the Hermit.

Peter. — God be praised !

And when our eyes have feasted on that wealth, Can we not cry in grateful ecstasy, E'en as the holy Hebrew cried, of old, '* Lord, let thy servants now depart in peace: " Our eyes have seen the city of thy love?

Joseph. — Ay, holy hermit ! for no other scene On earth is worthy to attract the gaze Of eyes that have beheld Jerusalem, And wept on Calvary.

Peter. — Alas ! alas !

That earth's most h^ly treasures e'er should be In the foul grasp of ruthless infidels ! That Christian pilgrims must await the will Of their Redeemer's enemies ere they Can weep in that lone garden where He wept, Or linger, with His Mother, at the cross. Or haste, with Magdalen, at early dawn, To the rent tomb of their triumphant Lord !

Ejiter Saracen Officer.

Saracen. — Another troop of crouching Christian dogs !

Ha ! ha ! methinks your pious pilgrimage Hath been of little profit, for ye seem A beggar train, in sooth. But so are all Your pilgrim tribe. The staff, the scallop-shell. The robe of gray, the dusty sandal shoon — All, all alike. A Christian pilgrimage ! Bah ! what a weary misery must it be ! Away ! ye dogs ! the Moslem spurns ye thus !

Allah be praised that ye are in our power ! We hold your holy places. Ay, 'tis well To make these Christians grovel at our feet. 'Tis thus your brethren crouch within 3'on walls; 'Tis thus all Christendom shall crouch ere long, For we have sworn to tear from every tower In Christian Europe that detested cross, And rear our flaming crescent in its place. Away ! awa}^ ! and bid your race prepare To bend before the Prophet's followers, The future rulers of the world. Begone ! Our city hath too many of your kind.

Joseph. — Ah ! fatal blow of all my dearest hopes ! Father I Thy will be done! At least, at least, I may yield up my worthless life to Thee, Thus near that mount where Thy own priceless life Was sacrificed for m.e. (Shiks down, exhausted}^

Mary {supporting him). — Alas ! he dies !

In pity hear my pleading ; spurn me not, But give my father entrance through yon gate — That hope hath been the day-star of his life. Fulfil it now, and I will gladly be A life-long prisoner, a drudging slave. Nay, more ! I'd shed my heart's last crimson drop To gratify my father's fondest wish, And think the favor all too cheaply bought.

Peter. — Refuse them not ; as thou would'st find sweet aid And soothing mercy in thine hour of need, So grant the pilgrim's last petition now, And let his wearied soul depart in peace, Within the walls of his Jerusalem.

Saracen. — Cease, babblers, cease! Have ye the piece of gold.

The tribute- money which your race must pay, Ere ye can win admission through yon gate? If so, your prayer is granted.

Mary. — Woe is me !

I have no gold. A cruel robber-band Of roving Bedouins have taken all. Save one small coin, and with that, ycster-eve, I bought refreshment for my fainting sire. For he drooped, worn with hunger, by the way. Alas ! I knew not of this entrance-price.

Saracen. — And thou hast dared to talk of slav(Ty !

Of willingness to suffer prison-bonds ! Fool ! know'st thou not that 1 could cast thee hence Into the foulest dungeon yonder, where Are Christians pining now. And slavery ! Ay, drudging servitude — a life as hard As is the toihng over-burdened beast's — Is now the fate of hundreds of thy race, In the fair city of Jerusalem !

Go, then, and think thyself supremely blest That thou art suffered to depart ! And thou, Most pious pleader ! hast thou, then, the sum To win thy entrance? Nay, I'll warrant me '1

Thou hast not e'en the smallest coin of brass.

Peter. — Thy taunt is true. I have not e'en a com Of brass or copper. Nay, for I may bear Nor purse, nor scrip. It is the Master's law, To whose blest service I am vowed, and so I bow me to His holv will. He knows

How I have longed to shed the soothing tear Of heart-felt penitence upon that shrine — That rocky altar, where He, Victim-Lamb And Priest, united, freel}^ offered up A perfect, priceless sacrifice for man.

Saracen. — Go hence, then, to thy cave, and spend thy life In longings for a boon thou shalt not win Until the tribute-price be paid. Away ! Or must I drive ye hence? {^Advances threateni?igty.)

Sir Hugh rushes in.

Sir Hugh. — Hold ! hold ! I say,

Thou fiendish savage! Take thy tribute-bribe !

\TJirows down a purse.

Here is a goodly heap of that vile trash : The gold thy soul doth worship. Take it, then, And straightway ope 3'our gate.

[Saracen stops to count the money. Sir Hugh. — Nay, hnger not!

I am that Christian knight who saved the life Of thy proud caliph. 'Twill be worse for thee If thou dost venture to refuse.

Saracen.— Sir knight,

Thy gold hath magic charms, albeit thy words Are bold, in sooth. Yet, as the Prophet lives, I like thy proud, outspoken bravery.

Peter (extending his hand^. — God's benison upon

thee, noble knight !

Sir Hugh {bozving). — ^Nay, holy hermit, if this trivial act

The Cross and the Cresce^it. 7

Hath won thy prayers, 'tis fuller recompense x\nd richer meed than I could dare to claim.

\_Turns to the other pitgrhns.

Rise, Christian friends! and freely pass yon gate.

Mary. — Alas, sir knight ! the rude repulse we met From yonder Saracen hath proved,. I fear, A death-blow to my feeble, aged sire.

{Sir Hugh hotds a flask of zvater to his lips. He opens his eyes.

Sir Hugh. — Nay, courage, maiden! See, thy father lives !

Arise, good sir, ^md enter freely now !

Mary.— Arise, my father, let us thank this knight, Whose noble act hath won the wished-for boon.

Joseph. — Nay, is it so ? O, this is life indeed ! I feel my ancient strength return once more. {Rises.) Joseph and Mary. — May God reward thee,

noble cavalier!

Sir Hugh. — Nay, nay, good friends, I merit not your thanks !

I were unworthy e'en the name of knight. Had I refused my aid. But we must haste ; These Saracens are treacherous. Let us, then, Follow yon warder with all speed. Good sir, Lean thus on me, and I will lend my strength, That we may quickly enter. Wilt lead on, Good father hermit? We shall follow thee.

{Exeunt: JOSEPH, supported by Mary, and Sir YiV)Q\l, preceded by Peter tJie Hermit, closely follozving the porter.

Scene II. — Peter the Hermit, soliloquizing at the Holy Sepulchre

Ah ! this is holy ground ! the heart must bow In silent awe, in rev'rent homage now. My Saviour's tomb! O words of mystery i Yet clearest pictures of His love for me. 'Tis good to linger here. 'Tis good to stand Within the limits of His holy land, To tread those streets His blessed footsteps trod, To hail the tomb that hid the martyred God ; To weep in that lone garden, where He wept O'er sinners' woes, e'en while those sinners slept, And the pure stars in sjanpathy looked dim, As the dread cup was offered unto Him ; To linger where the perfect Victim hung On that strange shrine, to which He freely clung, Bidding^ His sacred blood unceasino- flow A sea of grace, adown the mount of woe. And this lone, rocky tomb, the wondrous mine Of love's own treasure, priceless, pure, divine I Here, here the Conqueror triumphed over death, And healed the blight of sin's envenomed breatli. How clearly rise upon my spirit's view Redemption's scenes, in pictures fair and true I His sepulchre ! sweet gate of heaven ! here Can I most fitly shed the soothing tear, And bid my heart's best tide of love be spent E'en at this portal, by the Victor rent. ,'

And yet, alas ! a foul, polluting race Invade the limits of this holy place. Here, 'neath the shadow of His cross they stand, And rear, with demon might and daring hand.

The false, false symbol of their fiendish hate

For Him whose life hath opened mercy's gate !

E'en, e'en for them I But let me utter, too.

His words: "Forgive! they know not what they

do!"

Dear Lord of lov^e ! give vision to the blind Who scorn this casket where Thy form was shrined ! Let the dread reign of cruel error cease, That faithful hearts may seek Thy tomb in peace, And every nation bless the Crucified, And love the holy city where He died.

Enter SiMON, Patriarch of Jeriisalein.

Simon. — Amen ! Good pilgrim, I have murmured here That earnest prayer, through many a wear}^ year; Yet while mine eyes behold the unchecked wrong. My saddened heart exclaimeth, " Lord ! how long?" How long, blest Saviour! shall a tyrant hand Rest on the treasures of Th)' holy land ? How long shall those whose love hath led them here, Above Thy tomb to shed the sacred tear. Be crushed, insulted, even at that tomb, And find, in freedom's land, the captive's doom ? When shall Th}^ faithful children cease to feel The iron pressure of the despot's heel?

Peter. — O holy patriarch ! to many a scene Of cruel wrong my shrinking soiil hath been Indignant v;itness; e'en to-day I saw Two Christians forced, like drudging beasts, to draw A laden wain ; bound, too, in camel-yoke, And hailed with scoffs, and urged by cruel stroke !

lo Beside the Western Sea.

Simon. — Alas! dear pilgrim, would such scenes Avere few !

Too oft, too oft, they meet the startled yiew ; And I, the Christians' patriarch, must see My children's woes, without the power to free. O that some valiant host, undaunted, strong, Would win redress for this most grievous wrong, And check the progress of this fearful band, Who swear to conquer every Christian land ; To ride to victory on the boundless flood Of Christian tears and hated Christian blood ! To tear the cross from each polluted shrine, And plant, instead, the Moslem's crescent sign !

Peter. — List ! holy patriarch ! full many a knight, High-souled, strong-armed, and undismayed in fight, Dwells, even now, in Christian climes afar. Whose heart would thirst for just, long-needed war 'Gainst the barbarian horde, the savage race, Whose tyrant hands pollute each holy place. And whose unconquered sword and unchecked

hand Will sweep, like poison blast, o'er every land. Back to its deserts must that blast be driven — List to my counsel ! 'Tis the will of heaven ! In good Pope Urban thou wilt find a friend ; Unto him, then, thy heart's petitions send, And to each Christian prince, — for all are brave, And strong, withal, — the Holy Land to save. To-morrow morn I take my homeward way, . And thence thy pleading missive will convey. Throughout each Christian kingdom will I go. And there recount the tale of matchless woe ;

And urge the brave, by every tender claim, For Faith's dear sake, in Mercy's holy name, With valiant arm to crush this frightful foe, And hush their fellow-Christians' wail of woe ; To tear the crescent from this holy wall, To bid the cruel throne of Islam fall, And checking error's God-defying reign. Plant the pure cross upon these towers again.

Simon. — 'Tis heaven's will, and heaven's holy fire Doth light thy glance, thy earnest tones inspire. How willingly will I those words obey, And bid God speed thee on thy holy way ! My home is near, haste with me hither, then, And let thy ardent zeal inspire my pen ; And while sweet mercy's charge thou'lt homeward

bear, Thy name shall dwell in my unceasing prayer.

[Exeunt.

Scene III. — A valley of Lorraine. Enter Lady Blanche

Lady Blanche. — Peace ! perfect peace ! how, like a white-winged dove It broodeth o'er the landscape ! Everywhere Doth nature own its charm. In soft repose She rests, as though sweet Eden memories Were haunting all her heart. An infant's breath Is not more gentle than this morning breeze, That scarcely stirs the incense-laden flowers ; And e'en the golden light that softly floods Each moissy dell, but makes the stillness seem

Deeper and more intense ; as beaming smiles On face of slumb'rer tell of softest dreams. Alas ! alas ! that man's discordant strife Should mar the loveliness of nature's rest! That he, the lord of all this smiling earth, Should ever make its sacred quietude Unwilling witness of his violence.

Enter Lady Agnes.

Lady Agnes.— Av, ay, sweet friend ! thy mournful thoughts are mine, And the same cause, I ween, hath summoned them ;■ This quiet vale, ere sets yon shining sun, Must be the scene of fierce, unholy strife. My brother, and thy kinsman, Guy De Lille, Have vowed to meet in deadly combat here, E'en on this tranquil morn. Alas ! alas! This velvet turf shall soon be strangely dyed.

Lady Blanche. — O fiendish feuds ! when will they cease to fill Faif Europe's vales with tumult ? From yon tower Of our ancestral wall my glance can rest On the fair lands and castle of De Lille ; Yet the}^, whose fields are thus so closely linked, Are severed by a dark, unchristian feud.

Lady Agnes. — I fear me much that angered heaven will send, Full soon, dread retribution. Brothers here Pour out each other's blood, in their blind rage. Unheeding that a fierce barbarian foe Speeds now, perchance, like tempest-driven cloud, On, on o'er Europe's fair, faith-hallowed soil.

The Cross and the Crescent. i o

Lady Blanche. — O gentle friend ! that dark foreboding fills My daily thoughts and nightly dreams with woe. My cousin Mary — dost remember her? Last year she went on holy pilgrimage With her loved sire, the saintly Sieur De Vaux, Unto our Saviour's sepulchre. To-day A holy palmer, on his homeward way From Palestine, did tell a sad, sad tale 0£ my sweet cousin. She is there detained A captive, pining in a dungeon cell ! My gentle Mary in the Moslem's powxr! The thought, the fearful thought, doth chill my

heart ; And her poor father, feeble, old, and spent With the fatigue of his long pilgrimage. Hath sunk beneath the fiendish cruelty Of that fierce race who rule the Holy Land. Lady Agnes. — 'Tis woful tidings ! And my darkest fears Wax stronger, darker, by this tale of woe. But'yester-eve, when kneeling at his feet, In tearful supplication, I did breathe This fear unto my brother, as I prayed That, for sw^eet mercy's sake, he would renounce This fierce, unnatural strife. He darkly frowned, And bade me, if I would not share his hate — His deep, undying hate — to hold my peace. Nor dare, with childish tears and w^hining tongue, To bid a knight forswear his knightly vow. O that a heart so full of gentleness, And tender, pitying, bounteous charity,

Should be thus blinded, warped by erring code

Of what the world calls feudal chivalry !

But I have turned my soulful pray'r to heaven ;

And now, to yonder consecrated shrine,

The cross-crowned dwelling of a God of peace

And pitying love, I hie me — there to pour

jNIy heart's deep anguish forth in prayer.

i will attend thee thither; we will waft Our mingled sighs to heaven, and God will hear Our fond and tearful pleadings. This sw^eet day Shall not be witness of unchristian strife — Shall not bring death and wailing to our homes. Pray too, with me, that those now severed hearts Of Europe's noblest knights may form, ere long, A sacred league to wrest the Holy Land From the foul grasp of infidels; to free Their fellow-Christians from a tyrant's power, And check the dread simoom, now sweeping on From Asia's deserts o'er our hallowed clime.

Enter Peter the Hermit.

Peter. — God grant that prayer ! O worse than demon strife !

What marvel that the pure, paternal heart Of our loved pope doth mourn unceasingly O'er the unchristian feuds of Christian knights, Who, heedless of his fond remonstrances, And the pure precepts of a peaceful faith. Still bid their brethren's blood cry, as of old. From earth to angered heaven I And, holy pope.

The C7VSS and the Crescent. 1 5

Well, well, too, may'st thou mourn o'er this fair

land, So lately led, from dreary pagan night, To the clear morning-light of Christian truth, Now doomed, unless some valiant arm will save, To feel the with'ring blight of Moslem hand ; And e'en, while basking in fair learning's morn. Be plunged again in depths of Stygian gloom. O that my voice could check the coming storm ! Could make these passion-blinded nobles see The woes that threaten thus, and bid them form A sacred compact for their own defence. And the deliverance of the hapless band Who pine 'neath Moslem, God-defying rule, By the polluted shrines of Palestine ! Hist ! hist ! I hear the coming combatants. Alas ! that hate should darken brows like those !

\_Conceals himself.

Enter De MerincoURT and De Lille. De Lille. — This is the place of combat. Nerv-e thine arm.

Marquis De Merincourt, for deadly strife ! De Merincourt. — Nay, Count De Lille, this arm hath strength, I trow, To cope with thine, as it hath done ere this.

Peter tJie Hermit suddenly appears.

Peter. — Hold ! most unworthy children Of a God of love and peace !

Pause in vour demon pastime!

Your strife unholv cease I

Ye that were linked tosrether

In faith's fraternal chain, Can ye thus rudely sever

That sacred bond in twain?

The pure baptismal water —

Hath it not la^•ed each brow, That, stamped with fiercest passion,

Is madly scowling now ?

Those lips that breathed to heaven

The same sweet words of prayer — • Can they, with tones of discord,

Pollute the tranquil air?

Ye share one blessed banquet.

At one pure shrine ve kneel, Yet, scarce from worship risen,

Uplift the horrid steel !

And can ve hope for heaven's

Serene, harmonious life, Yet pass, O Cain-like brethren,

Your earthly days in strife ?

Men ! Christians I pause and listen :

^Vhile ye are warring here, Your fello\v-Christians perish

Beneath the Moslem spear.

Ye've vowed to aid the injured,

Ye've sworn to crush the wrong, Yet Christians pine in dungeons,

And crv, " O Lord I how lonsr?"

The Saracen hath planted,

With sacrilegious hand, His false, triumphant standard