Far off was their murmur, it came not more nigh, The priests they erase it with care and with pain, High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd and beat, Scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trode, When the winds from the four points of heaven were They made each steel portal to rattle and ring, Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh, Unmeasur'd in height, undistinguish'd in form, In his hand a broad falchion blue-glimmered through smoke, And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he spoke; "With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, and no more, Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Virgin adore." The cloud-shrouded Arm gives the weapon; and see! The recreant receives the charm'd gift on his knee: The thunders growl distant, and faint gleam the fires, As, borne on the whirlwind, the phantom retires. Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim among, Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was strong; And the Red-cross wax'd faint and the Crescent came on, From the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon. From Lebanon's forests to Galilee's wave, The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave; Till the Knights of the Temple, and Knights of Saint John, With Salem's King Baldwin, against him came on. The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied, Against the charm'd blade which Count Albert did wield, The fence had been vain of the King's Red-cross shield; But a Page thrust him forward the monarch before, And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore. 1 So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stoop'd low Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue was o'er, He clench'd his set teeth, and his gauntleted hand; Short time had Count Albert in horror to stare On those death-swimming eyeballs, and blood-clotted hair; For down came the Templars, like Cedron in flood, And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood. The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites yield The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.- The Lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound, Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell, How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the Crescent it fell; And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid their glee, At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie. FREDERICK AND ALICE. [1801.] This tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina Von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend MR. LEWIS, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvements, published it in his "Tales of Wonder." FREDERICK leaves the land of France, Joying in his prancing steed, Keen to prove his untried blade, Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn, Lovely Alice wept alone; Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn, Hope, and peace, and honour flown. Mark her breast's convulsive throbs! Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd; As the village bell struck four. Far from her, and far from France, Heard ye not the boding sound, Told the fourth, the fated hour? Starts the steed, and snuffs the air, Struck with strange mysterious fears. Desperate, as his terrors rise, In the steed the spur he hides; From himself in vain he flies; Anxious, restless, on he rides. |