THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG.
“Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,”
The Soldan cried to the captive knight,
“And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met
To gaze on the fearful sight.
“But be our faith by thy lips profess'd,
The faith of Mecca's shrine,
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest,
And life shall yet be thine.”
“I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood,
And gazed with undaunted eye;
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood,
And think'st thou I fear to die?
“I have stood where thousands, by Salem's towers,
Have fall'n for the name divine;
And the faith that cheer'd their closing hours
Shall be the light of mine.”
“Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health,
And the glow of youth's fresh bloom?
Thou art offer'd life, and pomp, and wealth,
Or torture and the tomb.”
“I have been where the crown of thorns was twined
For a dying Saviour's brow;
He spurn'd the treasures that lure mankind,
And I reject them now!”
“Art thou the son of a noble line
In a land that is fair and blest?
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine,
Again on its shores to rest?
“Thine own is the choice to hail once more
The soil of thy father's birth,
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er,
Forgotten in foreign earth.”
“Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise
In the country of my love;
But yet, though cloudless my native skies,
There's a brighter clime above!”
The bard hath paused—for another tone
Blends with the music of his own;
And his heart beats high with hope again,
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain.
“Are there none within thy father's hall,
Far o'er the wide blue main,
Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall,
With sorrow deep and vain?”
“There are hearts that still, through all the past,
Unchanging have loved me well;
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast
When I bade my home farewell.
“Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier
Than th' apostate's living stain:
There's a land where those who loved when here,
Shall meet to love again.”
'Tis he! thy prince—long sought, long lost,
The leader of the red-cross host!
'Tis he!—to none thy joy betray,
Young Troubadour! away, away!
Away to the island of the brave,
The gem on the bosom of the wave;
Arouse the sons of the noble soil,
To win their Lion from the toil;
And free the wassail-cup shall flow,
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow;
The festal board shall be richly crown'd,
While knights and chieftains revel round,
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring,
When merry England hails her king.
