The dead,—nor friends nor kin have they!
Nor friends nor kin my ransom pay!
My wrongs afflict me—yet far more
For faithless friends my heart is sore.
Oh, what a blot upon their name,
If I should perish thus in shame!
Nor is it strange I suffer pain
When sacred oaths are thus made vain,
And when the king with bloody hands
Spreads war and pillage through my lands.
One only solace now remains—
I soon shall burst these servile chains.
Ye troubadours and friends of mine,
Brave Chail and noble Pensauvine,
Go tell my rivals, in your song, This heart hath never done them wrong.
He infamy—not glory—gains,
Who strikes a monarch in his chains!
Written by Richard I. while prisoner in Germany.
(From Spofford's Library of Historic
Character and Famous Events.)
THE LAST CRUSADER
Slowly The Last Crusader eyed
The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain,
And thought of those whose blood had dyed
The earth with crimson streams in vain!
He thought of that sublime array,
The hosts, that over land and deep
The hermit marshall'd on their way,
To see those towers, and halt to weep!
Resign'd the loved, familiar lands,
O'er burning wastes the cross to bear,
And rescue from the Paynim's hands
No empire save a sepulchre!