LAY OF THE CRUSADER.
———
BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.
———
Ginevra! Ginevra!
Thy girlish lip is mute;
And silent, in ancestral hall,
Hangs now thy gilded lute;
With trophies from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true Knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
By palmer wert thou told,
That on the plains of Palestine
My corse was lying cold;
And credence giving to the tale,
Went up wild prayer to die,
While suddenly thy cheek grew pale,
And lustreless thine eye.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
No more thy lulling voice,
When twilight paints the sky, will trill
The ballad of my choice;
Thy parting gift, my buried bride,
Will nerve this arm no more,
When speeds my barb with fetlock dyed
In Saracenic gore.
Ginevra! Ginevra!
Death holds in icy thrall
Thy loveliness of form and face,
In his unlighted hall;
With laurels from the Holy Land
Hath come thine own true Knight,
To wildly wish the desert sand
Had drank his blood in fight.