Where the tall pines of frowning Kenesaw
Quivered like reeds before the blast of war;
Now looming up in shadowy ranks they stand
Like guardian phantoms brooding o’er the land.
No higher impulse thrilled the knights of old
Who to the crusades like a torrent rolled,
To pour for the dear cross their blood like wine
Upon the plains of Holy Palestine,
And feed on desert sands in the far East
The jackals ravening for their glorious feast.