He darted on his track, and wrenched
His pitcher from his hand.

The slave dropped back his drooping head,
And strove to understand,

With bony fingers interlaced

His dazzled eyes above,

Why came the tall mute man to him, In enmity or love.

Then muttered he, "This scorching sun
At last hath fired my brain!
I seem to see one far away,

Perchance long dead, again,

"Sir Pavon! - 'Tis some phantom, bred
Of famine wild and weak,
Or fever. Wherefore gaze on it?
If 't was a man, 't would speak."

Then Pavon in a storm of tears

Fell, crying, on his breast, "Forgive me, brother, if thou canst! I've known no peace or rest,

"For years or ages, but to right The wrong I did to thee,

And mine own soul, roamed o'er the earth! From henceforth thou art free."

And made the dancing billows glow:
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung :
"Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
English Richard ploughs the deep!
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy,
From distant towers, with anxious eye,
The radiant range of shield and lance
Down Damascus' hills advance:
From Sion's turrets as afar

Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
Saladin, thou Paynim king,

From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
On Acre's spiry citadel,

Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictured with the silver moon:
England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain, to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray;
Those sounds our rising fury fan:
English Richard in the van,
On to victory we go,

A vaunting infidel the foe.”
Blondel led the tuneful band,

And swept the wire with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crowned,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.

Soon we kissed the sacred earth
That gave a murdered Saviour birth;
Then, with ardor fresh endued,
Thus the solemn song renewed.

"Lo, the toilsome voyage past, Heaven's favored hills appear at last! Object of our holy vow,

We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpled palm.
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your ravished honors to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore !
And thou, the sepulchre of God!
By mocking Pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,

And quenched thy lamps that beamed so bright;
For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!

Aloft in his heroic hand,

Blazing, like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields.
Resistless Kaliburn he wields.
Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
From each wild mountain's trackless crown

In vain thy gloomy castles frown:
Thy battering engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in terrific state,

On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hushed the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight vapors damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain :

We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt !
With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doomed to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.
Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
Soon on thy battlements divine

Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
Ye barons, to the sun unfold

Our cross, with crimson wove and gold!"

THOMAS WARTON.

THE LAST CRUSADER.

LEFT to the Saviour's conquering foes,
The land that girds the Saviour's grave,
Where Godfrey's crosier-standard rose,
He saw the crescent-banner wave.

There, o'er the gently broken vale,
The halo-light on Zion glowed ;
There Kedron, with a voice of wail,
By tombs of saints and heroes flowed;

There still the olives silver o'er
The dimness of the distant hill;
There still the flowers that Sharon bore
Calm air with many an odor fill.

Slowly the Last Crusader eyed

The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain,
And thought of those whose blood had dyed
The earth with crimson streams in vain!

He thought of that sublime array,
The hosts that over land and deep
The hermit marshalled on their way,
To see those towers, and halt to weep'

"In consequence of his removal to a garden in the suburbs of the city, where his kind host had pitched a tent for him, he prosecuted the work before him uninterruptedly. Living amidst clusters of grapes by the side of a clear stream, and frequently sitting under the shade of an orange-tree, which Jafier Ali Khan delighted to point out to visitors, until the day of his own departure, he passed many a tranquil hour, and enjoyed many a Sabbath of holy rest and divine refreshment."Life of H. Martyn.

May 1st to 10th. - "Passed some days at Jafier Ali Khan's garden with Mirza Seid Ali, Aga Baba, Sheikh Abul Hassan, reading, at their request, the Old Testament histories. Their attention to the Word and their love and respect for me seemed to increase as the time of my departure approached. Aga Baba, who had been reading St. Matthew, related very circumstantially to the company the particulars of the death of Christ. The bed of roses on which we sat, and the notes of the nightingales warbling around us, were not so sweet to me as this discourse from the Persian."- Ibid.

The plain of Shiraz is covered with ancient ruins, and contains the tombs of the Persian poets Saadi and Hafiz.

A VISION of the bright Shiraz, of Persian bards the theme:

The vine with bunches laden hangs o'er the crystal stream ;

The nightingale all day her notes in rosy thickets trills,

the distant hills.

evermore is his :