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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447596" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Crusader</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">He is come from the land of the sword and shrine,<br>From the sainted battles of Palestine;<br>The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest,<br>Like a glory, the red cross hangs at his breast;<br>His courser is black, as black can be,<br>Save the brow star, white as the foam of the sea,<br>And he wears a scarf of broidery rare,<br>The last love gift of his lady fair;<br>It bore for device a cross and a dove,<br>And the words - 'I am vowed to my God and my love.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He comes not back the same that he went;<br>For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been spent,<br>His golden hair has a deeper brown,<br>And his brow has caught a darker frown;<br>And his lip has lost its youthful red,<br>And the shade of the South o'er his cheek is spread,<br>But stately his step, and his bearing high,<br>And wild the light of his fiery eye;<br>And proud in the lists were the maiden bright,<br>Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her knight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He rides for the home he had pined to see,<br>In the court, in the camp, in captivity!<br>He reached the castle - his own step was all<br>That echoed within the deserted hall;<br>He stood on the roof of the ancient tower;<br>And, for banner, there waved one pale wall flower,<br>And, for sound of the trumpet and peal of the horn,<br>Came the scream of the owl, on the night wind borne.<br>The turrets were falling, the vassals were flown,<br>And the bat ruled the halls, he had called his own;<br>His heart throbbed high - Oh! never again<br>Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain; <br>He never might think of his boyish years,<br>Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears,<br>Which hope and memory shed when they meet -<br>The grave of his kindred was at his feet -<br>He stood alone, the last of his race,<br>With the cold wide world for his dwelling place;<br>The home of his fathers gone to decay,<br>All but their memory had passed away -<br>No one to welcome, no one to share<br>The laurel, he no more was proud to wear.<br>He came, in the pride of his war-success,<br>But to weep over very desolateness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They pointed him to a barren plain,<br>Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain;<br>They shewed him the lowly grave, where slept<br>The maiden, whose scarf he so truly had kept;<br>But they could not shew him one living thing,<br>To which his withered heart could cling -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Amid the warriors of Palestine <br>Is one, the first in the battle line.<br>It is not for glory he seeks the field,<br>For a blasted tree is upon his shield,<br>And the motto it bears is, 'I fight for a grave.'<br>He found it - That warrior has died with the brave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Letitia+Elizabeth+Landon">Letitia Elizabeth Landon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447596" data-title="The Crusader de Letitia Elizabeth Landon" data-description="He is come from the land of the sword and shrine,
From the sainted battles of Palestine;
The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest,
Like a glory, the red cross hangs at his breast;
His courser is black, as black can be,
Save the brow star, white ..."></div>
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