THE Meadow of the Seven Brothers, ON WHICH GODFREY OF BOUILLON NEAR to a deep and lonely bay Where dark the Euxine flows, There seven lofty trees arise In old and haughty pride, Seen from afar, the baffled sight On yonder field, long, long ago, A glorious host was seen, And steel-clad knights rode to and fro, 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, And pennons floated through the air The crested helms of nobles brave And proudly did the branches wave Then the old mountain echoes rang To song and roundelay, And trumpet's note, and armourer's clang, In sooth they were a gallant band, With cross on breast, and sword in hand, One holy hope inspired them all But all the hearts that beat so light 'Neath silken scarf, and corslet bright, They slumber on in silent rest With folded hands on humble breast, And o'er them droop the banners won Their task is o'er, their toil is done, The light of Holy Truth has set But those dark trees wave proudly yet, ON AN Armenian Christian's Grave, IN THE CEMETERY AT CONSTANTINOPLE. GENTLE stranger, linger here, Here no stately cypress waves, Terebinth, so dark and high, Stranger, by that cross so blest, |