Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!
—Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!
IX.
Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping!
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high,
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry,
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh
To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry,