Each ancient feud in peace atone,
Wield your keen swords for her alone,
And swear upon the cross, to cast
Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!”
No voice replies. The holy bands
Advance to where yon chieftain stands,
With folded arms, and brow of gloom
O’ershadow’d by his floating plume.
To him they lift the cross—in vain:
He turns—oh! say not with disdain,