It warm’d but to be cold again.
“Then was the Castellan resolved,
The cross upon his cuirass’d breast,
’Mid toils in Palestine to seek
The tumults of his heart to rest.
“And there, in many a hot affray,
Where perils threat, and dangers thicken,
He stands till,—’spite his coat of mail,
His noble heart with death is stricken.
“‘Oh! hear’st thou me, my page?’ he cried,