And let the brand divide the hand
That grasps the hilt of the Crusaders!

Yet idle words in such a scene!
Yon rosy mists on high careering,--
The Moorish cavaliers who fleet
With hawk and hound and distant cheering,--
The dipping sail puffed to the gale,
The prow that spurns the billow's fawning,--
How can they fade to dimmer shade,
And how this day desert its dawning?

Forget to soar, thou rosy rack!
Ye riders, bronze your airy motion!
Still skim the seas, so snowy craft,--
Forever sail to meet the ocean!
There bid the tide refuse to slide,
Glassing, below, thy drooping pinion,--
Forever cease its wild caprice,
Fallen at the feet of our dominion!

* * * * *



THE HUMMING-BIRD.

_May 9th._