THE

Meadow of the Seven Brothers,

ON WHICH GODFREY OF BOUILLON ENCAMPED WITH HIS ARMY OF

CRUSADERS.

NEAR to a deep and lonely bay
Where dark the Euxine flows,
There lies a flowery meadow gay
Outspread in green repose.

There seven lofty trees arise

In old and haughty pride,

They grow beneath those eastern skies,

Like brethren, side by side.

Seen from afar, the baffled sight
Marks there but one alone,

So their fraternal arms unite,

As though their heart were one.

On yonder field, long, long ago,

A glorious host was seen,

And steel-clad knights rode to and fro,

With high and lordly mien.

The sun shone down on spears that glanced,

And tents in bright array:

'Mid plume and lance the war-steeds pranced, All ready for the fray.

And burnished mail gleamed brightly there,

Dazzling beholder's eye,

And pennons floated through the air

In gorgeous blazonry.

The crested helms of nobles brave
Glittered amid yon shade,

And proudly did the branches wave
Above each knightly head.

Then the old mountain echoes rang

To song and roundelay,

And trumpet's note, and armourer's clang,
And fiery charger's neigh.

In sooth they were a gallant band,

Those warriors tried and true:

With cross on breast, and sword in hand, Their hearts no terror knew.

One holy hope inspired them all
With courage bold and high,
In one blest cause to stand or fall,
To conquer, or to die,

But all the hearts that beat so light

On yonder field of old,

'Neath silken scarf, and corslet bright, Now moulder low and cold.

They slumber on in silent rest

Within the holy aisle,

With folded hands on humble breast,

And crossed limbs the while.

And o'er them droop the banners won
In many a bloody field;

Their task is o'er, their toil is done,

Each sleeps upon his shield.

The light of Holy Truth has set

Upon Byzantium's shore,

But those dark trees wave proudly yet, And greenly, as before.

ΟΝ ΑΝ

Armenian Christian's Grave.

IN THE CEMETERY AT CONSTANTINOPLE.

GENTLE stranger, linger here,

Breathe a prayer, and shed a tear ;

Charity the like doth crave

O'er a Christian brother's grave.

Here no stately cypress waves,
As in Moslem fields of graves ;
Here no Turkish maiden's wail
Is duly heard at evening pale.

Terebinth, so dark and high,
Waves where these poor ashes lie,
And a cross is graved, alone,
On the low and mossy stone.

Stranger, by that cross so blest,
Where those Christian ashes rest,
For sweet charity delay,

Linger here a while, and pray.