Upon her bosom wake again.
She bends with cheeks serenely bright
Amid the thunder of the fight.
Then over to the holy places!
That stifled plea is never dumb!
By prayer and conquest blot the traces,
That mark the guilt of Christendom!
If first the Savior's grave we gain,
No longer lasts the heathen reign.
Henry's whole soul was in commotion. The tomb rose before him like a youthful form, pale and stately, upon a massive stone in the midst of a savage multitude, cruelly maltreated, and gazing with sad countenance upon a cross, which shone in the background with vivid outlines, and multiplied itself in the tossing waves of the ocean.