As a soul in pain,
Treading his desolate path accursed,
Looks back and dreams through his tears' dim rain
That by Heaven's wide gate the angels smile,
Relenting, and beckon him back again,
And goes on, thrice damned by that devil's wile, -
So sometimes burns in my weary brain
The thought that you loved me all the while.
GUY OF THE TEMPLE.
Down the dim west slowly fails the stricken sun,
And from his hot face fades the crimson flush
Veiled in death's herald-shadows sick and grey.
Silent and dark the sombre valley lies
Forgotten; happy in the late fond beams
Glimmer the constant waves of Galilee.
Afar, below, in airy music ring
The bugles of my host; the column halts,
A wearied serpent glittering in the vale,
Where rising mist-like gleam the tented camps.
Pitch my pavilion here, where its high cross
May catch the last light lingering on the hill.
The savage shadows, struggling by the shore,
Have conquered in the valley; inch by inch
The vanquished light fights bravely to these crags
To perish glorious in the sunset fire;
Even as our hunted Cause so pressed and torn
In Syrian valleys, and the trampled marge
Of consecrated streams, displays at last
Its narrowing glories from these steadfast walls.
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