FAINTLY bray'd the battle's roar,
Distant down the hollow wind;
Panting Tenor fled before,

Wounds and death were left behind.

The war-fiend curs'd the sunken day,
That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon;
While scarcely lighted to the prey,

Low hung, and lower'd the bloody moon.

The field, so late the hero's pride,

Was now with various carnage spread, And floated with a crimson tide

That drench'd the dying and the dead.

O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandon'd all to horrors wild,
With frantic step Maria flew,
Maria, sorrow's early child!

By duty led, for every vein

Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame;

With Edgar o'er the wintry main,

She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came.

For well she thought a friend so dear,
In darkest hours might joy impart ;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,
Or sooth her bleeding warrior's smart.
Though look'd for long-in chill affright,
The torrent bursting from her eye,
She heard the signal for the fight,
While her soul trembled in a sigh.

She heard and clasp'd him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge th' inglorious stay
His manly heart the charm confest ;

Then broke the charm and rush'd away. Too soon, in few but deadly words, Some flying straggler breath'd to tell,That in the foremost strife of swords, The young, the gallant Edgar fell. She prest to hear, she caught the taleAt every sound her blood congeal'd; With terror bold, with terror pale, She sprung to search the fatal field. O'er the sad scene in dire amaze

She went, with courage not her own; On many a corpse she cast her gaze, And turn'd her ear to many a groan.

Drear anguish urged her to press

Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd; Of comfort glad, the drear caress

The damp, chill, dying hand return'd.

Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled,
When late pale Edgar's form she found,
Half buried with the hostile dead,

And bor'd with many a grisly wound.

She knew she sunk-the night-bird scream'd, The moon withdrew her troubled light, And left the fair, though fall'n she seem'd— To worse than death-and deepest night.

REFT of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,

Mourn, widow'd queen, forgotten Sion, mourn!
Is this thy place, sad City, this thy throne,
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone?
While suns unblest their angry lustre fling,
And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring?
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy wiew'd?
Where now thy might, which all those kings subdu’d?
No martial myriads muster in thy gate;

No suppliant nations in thy Temple wait;
No prophet bards thy glittering courts among,
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song::
But lawless Force, and meagre Want is there,
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear;
While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade..

Ye guardian Saints! ye warrior sons of heaven, (1) To whose high care Judæa's state was given! O wont of old your nightly watch to keep, A host of gods, on Sion's towery steep! If e'er your secret footsteps linger still By Siloa's fount, or Tabor's echoing hill, If e'er your song on Salem's glories dwell, And mourn the captive land you lov'd so well; (For oft, tis said, in Kedron's palmy vale, Mysterious harpings swell the midnight gale, And, blest as balmy dews that Hermon cheer, Melt in soft cadence on the pilgrim's ear;) Forgive, blest spirits, if a theme so high Mock the weak notes of mortal minstrelsy!Yet might your aid this anxious breast inspire With one faint spark of Milton's seraph fire; Then should my Muse ascend with bolder flight, And weave her eagle plumes exulting in the light. O happy once in heaven's peculiar love, Delight of men below, and saints above! Though, Salem, now the spoiler's ruffian hand Has loos'd his hell-hounds o'er thy wasted land ; Though weak, and whel'd beneath the storms of Fate,

Thy house is left unto thee desolate ;

Though thy proud stones in cumb'rous ruin fall,
And seas of sand o'ertop thy mould'ring wall;
Yet shall the Muse to Fancy's ardent view,
Each shadowy trace of faded pomp renew:
And as the Seer (2) on Pisgah's topmast brow,
With glist'ning eye beheld the plain below;
With prescient ardour drank the scented gale,
And bade the op'ning glades of Canaan hail:
Her eagle-eye shall scan the prospect wide,
From Carmel's cliffs to Almotana's tide; (3)

(1) Authorities for these celestial warriors may be found Josh. v. 13.-2 Kings vi. 2.-2 Macc. v. 3.-Ibid xi. &c.

(2) Moses.

(3) Almotana is the oriental name for the Dead Sea, as Ardeni is for Jordan.

The flinty waste, the cedar-tufted hill,
The liquid health of smooth Ardeni's rill ;

The grot, where by the watch-fire's ev'ning blaze, (4)
The robber riots, or the hermit prays;

Or where the tempest rives the hoary stone,
The wint'ry top of giant Lebanon,

Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold,
These stormy seats the warrior Druses hold; (5)
From Norman blood their lofty line they trace,
Their lion courage proves their generous race.
They, only they, while all around them kneel
In sullen homage to the Thracian steel,
Teach their pale despot's waning moon to fear
The patriot terrors of the mountain spear.

Yes, valorous chiefs, while yet your sabres shine, The native guard of feeble Palestine ;

O ever thus, by no vain boast dismay'd,
Defend the birth-right of the cedar shade!
What tho' no more for you the obedient gale
Swells the white bosom of the Tyrian sail;
Though now no more your glitt'ring marts unfold
Sidonian dyes, and Lusitanian gold; (6)
Though not for you the pale and sickly slave
Forgets the light in Ophir's wealthy cave;
Yet your's the lot, in proud contentment blest,
Where chearful labour leads to tranquil rest.
No robber rage the ripening harvest knows;
And unrestrain'd the generous vintage flows:
Nor less your sons to manliest deeds aspire,
And Asia's mountains glow with Spartan fire.
So when, deep sinking in the rosy main,
The western sun forsakes the Syrian plain;

(4) The mountains of Palestine are full of caverns, which are generally occupied in one or other of the methods here mentioned.

(5) The untameable spirit, feudal customs, and affection for Europeans, which distinguish this extraordinary race, who boast themselves to be a remnant of the Crusaders, are well described in Pagees.

(6) The gold of the Tyrians chiefly came from Portugal, which was probably their Tarshish.