Lays and Ballads from Ancient History :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the realm of sunny Palestine,
Realm of the rose, the palm, the vine,
The warrior-king hath fought;
And the valour of his strong right hand
Free passage through that hallow'd land
For Christian men hath wrought.

Now may the pilgrim fearless tread
The spot that held his Saviour dead,
And fearless kneel to pay
His vows before that sacred shrine,
In the land of sunny Palestine,
Where Christians love to pray.

And the warrior-king hath won him fame,
A mighty and a glorious name
Is his, the wide world through;
For his deeds on that far eastern shore,
Done in a righteous cause, seem more
Than man alone might do.

A generous knight he was, who strove
For fame, and piety, and love,
Not for base earthly gain:
He saw his comrades share the spoil
Won by his valour and his toil,
With careless, calm disdain.

Enough it was for him to feel
That for his God he drew his steel,
And for his faith was bold;
And he thought one smile so gently bright,
Given by his lady to her knight,
Was worth a world of gold.

And he knew that he should leave behind
The legacy to all mankind
Of an undying name;
A name to thrill the brave, and make
The very coward's heart awake
To not ignoble shame.

And now, his toils and dangers o'er,
Joyous he quits that eastern shore;
Oh, let him journey fast!
For his eager heart with hope doth beat,
He pants once more to set his feet
On England's soil at last.

Yet are there foes upon his way
To strike, beleaguer, and waylay;—
The promise-breaking Greek,
The lord of France's lovely land,
And Austria's duke, as strong of hand
As he of wit is weak.

In a Templar's garb the king is drest,
The white cross gleams upon his breast:
Safe in this strange disguise
He hopes to join his lady dear,
And read his welcome in the tear
That bathes her gentle eyes.

Look forth, look forth from England's shore!
Look forth, look forth, the far seas o'er!
When will his swift bark come?
Oh, swift and sure the bark should be
Which bears across the willing sea
Our wanderer to his home!

Take up, take up the strain of grief!
Lost is our warrior and our chief!
Foes lurk'd upon his path.
Nor close disguise, nor linkèd mail,
Nor faith, nor chivalry avail
To save him from their wrath.

Captive he is; but to what foe,
Alas, his English do not know!
A dark and sunless gloom
Hath closed above that noble head,
As closeth o'er the newly dead
The cold and changeless tomb!