THE ANCIENT MONUMENT.
There's a lion under thy feet, Sir Knight,
And over thy head an escutcheon bright,
And group'd around, with mournful mien,
Kneeling kindred and friends are seen:
From some, old Time hath cloven the head,
Or the arm of marble away hath shred,
But thou, in thy perfect state art there,
With cuirass buckled, and forehead bare,
And pale hands lifted and clasp'd in prayer.
Where were the fields of thy proud career?
What were the deeds of thy glittering spear?
With thy good war-steed and thy helmed head,
Didst thou trample on heaps of the quivering dead?
Was thy banner on Syrian plains display'd?
Did it flame in the van of the red crusade?
Didst thou quaff thy cup of foaming wine,
And boldly lead the embattled line
To the leaguer'd gates of Palestine?
What was the price of thy warrior fame?
What was the cost of thy mighty name?
Did innocent blood profusely spilt
Tinge thy coat of mail with the hue of guilt?
Stern wert thou to thy vassal train?
Dead to the moaning of want and pain?
