Which freed her from the unchristian yoke,
With him his gentle daughter came;

The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn,"

Who hold the thought of death in scorn,
And win their way with falchions' force,
Or pave the path with many a corse,
O'er which the following brave may rise,

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Their stepping-stone-the last who dies!

XI.

'Tis midnight: on the mountain's brown

The cold, round moon shines deeply down;

Blue roll the waters, blue the sky

Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;

Who ever gazed upon them shining,

And turned to earth without repining,

Nor wished for wings to flee away,

And mix with their eternal ray?

The waves on either shore lay there

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Calm, clear, and azure as the air;

And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,

But murmured meekly as the brook.

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The winds were pillowed on the waves;

The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;

As rose the Muezzin's voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer;

It rose, that chanted mournful strain,

Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain :

'Twas musical, but sadly sweet,

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Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,

And take a long unmeasured tone,

To mortal minstrelsy unknown.

It seemed to those within the wall

A cry prophetic of their fall :

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