MISCELLANEOUS THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. ERE down yon blue Carpathian hills These prison shades are dark and cold,― Is on my heart alway. For since the day when Warkworth wood When, looking back in sunset light, And from its casement, far and white, Like one who from some desert shore So from the desert of my fate The shade is backward cast! I've wandered wide from shore to shore, And by the Holy Sepulchre I've pledged my knightly sword To Christ, his blessed Church, and her, The Mother of our Lord. Oh, vain the vow, and vain the strife! In vain the penance strange and long, The prayer, the fasting, and the thong, And sackcloth shirt of hair. The eyes of memory will not sleep,— And vigils with the past they keep And still the loves and joys of old I see the flow of locks of gold, Ah me! upon another's breast Those golden locks recline; I see upon another rest The glance that once was mine “O faithless Priest !—O perjured knight! I hear the Master cry; “Shut out the vision from thy sight, Let Earth and Nature die "The Church of God is now thy spouse, In vain! This heart its grief must know, And falls beneath the self-same blow, O pitying Mother! souls of light, Then let the Paynim work his will, " THE HOLY LAND. FROM LAMARTINE. I HAVE not felt o'er seas of sand, Nor pitched my tent at even-fall, On dust where Job of old has lain, Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall, The dream of Jacob o'er again. |