From Lebanon red morning glances
On billows that foam and toss sunwards;
From Cyprus with white sails advances
The Crusader ship ever onwards.
Rudél, the young prince of Blaye, lies on
The deck, and with fever doth wrestle;
His swimming eyes scan the horizon
For the turrets of Tripoli's castle.

When the far Asian coastline is sighted
His familiar canzone he singeth:
‘O fair foreign Love, to whom plighted
My troth is, I 'm heart-sick for thee.’
Its flight a grey halcyon wingeth,
And prolongs the sweet note of repining;

If I could speak thy gentle grace,
Which far surpasses word,
This rhyme were sweeter, now I trace,
Than ever yet was heard;
For here would blend the morning's glee,
And peace of evening's close,
With music of the summer sea,
And fragrance of the rose.

But since affection's tender strain,
And passion's fervid line,
Would seem but idle, weak, and vain
To goodness such as thine,
Let all my life avouch thy worth,
And all my love thy praise!
For never woman walked on earth
In more angelic ways!

I've seen life's golden prime depart,

I curse the time, wherein these lips of mine
Did pray or praise the dame that was unkind:
I curse my ink, my paper, and each line
My hand hath writ, in hope to move her mind:
I curse her hollow heart, and flattering eyes,
Whose sly deceits did cause my mourning cries.

I curse the sugared speech and Siren's song,
Wherewith so oft she hath bewitched mine ear:
I curse my foolish will that staid so long,
And took delight to 'bide twixt hope and fear:
I curse the hour, wherein I first began,
By loving looks, to prove a witless man.

The minstrel of the classic lay
Of love and wine who sings
Still found the fingers run astray
That touched the rebel strings.

Of Cadmus he would fain have sung,
Of Atreus and his line;
But all the jocund echoes rung
With songs of love and wine.

Ah, brothers! I would fain have caught
Some fresher fancy's gleam;
My truant accents find, unsought,
The old familiar theme.

Love, Love! but not the sportive child
With shaft and twanging bow,
Whose random arrows drove us wild
Some threescore years ago;

Not Eros, with his joyous laugh,

It seems a dream the infant love
That tamed my truant will,
But 'twas a dream of happiness,
And I regret it still!

Its images are part of me,
A very part of mind—
Feelings and fancies beautiful
In purity combined!

Time's sunset lends a tenderer tinge
To what those feelings were,
Like the cloud-mellow'd radiance
Which evening landscapes bear:

They wedded are unto my soul,
As light is blent with heat,
Or as the hallowed confluence
Of air with odours sweet.

Though she, the spirit of that dream,
Lacks of the loveliness

Cold blows the winter wind: 't is Love,
Whose sweet eyes swim with honeyed tears,
That bears me to thy doors, my love,
Tossed by the storm of hopes and fears.

Cold blows the blast of aching Love;
But be thou for my wandering sail,
Adrift upon these waves of love,
Safe harbor from the whistling gale!

In the meadow—what in the meadow?
Bluebells, buttercups, meadowsweet,
And fairy rings for the children's feet
In the meadow.

In the garden—what in the garden?
Jacob's-ladder and Solomon's-seal,
And Love-lies-bleeding beside All-heal
In the garden.

There's a wideness in God's mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea;
There's a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.

There is welcome for the sinner,
And more graces for the good;
There is mercy with the Saviour;
There is healing in His blood.

For the love of God is broader
Than the measure of man's mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.

If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His word;
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord.

Then Daphnis strikes the note of one that plaineth,
Whose Love is not the Love he hoped to find;
A Love which after blandishment disdaineth
To bless the heart too readily resigned.
Slight snares indeed are they which Eros feigneth,
For well he knows that lover's eyes are blind,
But none the captured beast more keenly paineth
Than Love's entrapment cruelly unkind.
All things have grief at times. When high winds shake it,
The grove is grieved with plaintive murmurings;
So grieves the woodland bird when fowlers take it,
To feel the net encompassing its wings;

Of the Father's love begotten Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega, He the source, the ending he,
Of the things that are, that have been, And that future years shall see.

This is he whom heav'n-taught singers Sang of old with one accord,
Whom the Scriptures of the prophets Promised in their faithful word;
Now he shines, the long-expected; Let creation praise its Lord.

O ye heights of heav'n, adore him Angel hosts, his praises sing;
All dominions, bow before him, And extol our God and King;