BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT.
"Sin vos, y sin Dios y mi."
The motto that with trembling hand I write,
And deep is traced upon this heart of mine,
In olden time a loyal Christian knight
Bore graven on his shield to Palestine.
"Sin vos," it saith, "if I am without thee,"
Beloved! whose thought surrounds me every where—
"Sin Dios," I am without God, "y mi,"
And in myself I have no longer share.
Where pealed the clash of war, the mighty din,
Where trump and cymbal crashed along the sky;
High o'er the "Il Allah!" of the Moslemin,
"God and my lady!" rang his battle-cry.
His white plume waved where fiercest raged the flight,
His arm was strong the Paynim's course to stem:
His foot was foremost on the sacred height,
To plant the Cross above Jerusalem.
False proved the lady, and thenceforth the knight,
Casting aside the buckler and the brand,
Lived, an austere and lonely anchorite,
In a drear mountain-cave in Holy Land.
There, bowed before the Crucifix in prayer,
He would dash madly down his rosary,
And cry "Beloved!" in tones of wild despair,
"I have lost God, and self, in losing thee!"
And I, if thus my life's sweet hope were o'er,
An echo of the knight's despair must be;
Thus I were lost, if loved by thee no more,
For, ah! myself and heaven are merged in thee.