THE CRUSADER’S SONG.

“Remember the Holy Sepulchre.”

  Forget the land which gave ye birth—­
    Forget the womb that bore ye—­
  Forget each much-loved spot of earth—­
    Forget each dream of glory—­
  Forget the friends that by your side
    Stood firm as rocks unbroken—­
  Forget the late affianced bride,
    And every dear love token—­
  Forget the hope that in each breast
    Glow’d like a smould’ring ember—­
  But still the Holy Sepulchre,
    Remember! oh remember!

  Remember all the vows ye’ve sworn
    At holy Becket’s altar—­
  Remember all the ills ye’ve borne,
    And scorn’d to shrink or falter—­
  Remember every laurel’d field,
    Which saw the Crescent waving—­
  Remember when compell’d to yield,
    Uncounted numbers braving: 
  Remember these, remember too
    The cause ye strive for, ever;
  The Cross! the Holy Sepulchre! 
    Forget—­forget them never!

  By Him who in that Sepulchre
    Was laid in Death’s cold keeping—­
  By Her who bore, who rear’d him.  Her
    Who by that Cross sat weeping—­
  By those, whose blood so oft has cried
    Revenge for souls unshriven!—­
  By those, whose sacred precepts guide
    The path to yonder Heaven! 
  From youth to age, from morn to eve
    From Spring-tide to December,
  The Holy Sepulchre of Christ
    Remember! oh remember!

Literary Remains of Henry Neele.

* * * * *

A SERENADE.

  Wake, Lady, wake! the midnight Moon
  Sails through the cloudless skies of June;
  The Stars gaze sweetly on the stream,
  Which in the brightness of their beam,
    One sheet of glory lies;
  The glow-worm lends its little light,
  And all that’s beautiful and bright
  Is shining in our world to-night,
    Save thy bright eyes,

  Wake, Lady! wake! the nightingale
  Tells to the Moon her love-lorn tale;
  Now doth the brook that’s hush’d by day,
  As through the vale she winds her way,
    In murmurs sweet rejoice;
  The leaves, by the soft night-wind stirr’d,
  Are whispering many a gentle word,
  And all Earth’s sweetest sounds are heard,
    Save thy sweet voice.

  Wake, Lady! wake! thy lover waits,
  Thy steed stands saddled at the gates;
  Here is a garment, rich and rare,
  To wrap thee from the cold night-air;
    Th’ appointed hour is flown. 
  Danger and doubt have vanish’d quite,
  Our way before lies clear and right,
  And all is ready for the flight,
    Save thou alone!

  Wake, Lady! wake!  I have a wreath
  Thy broad fair brow should rise beneath;
  I have a ring that must not shine
  On any finger, Love! but thine—­
    I’ve kept my plighted vow;
  Beneath thy casement here I stand,
  To lead thee by thine own white hand,
  Far from this dull and captive strand—­
    But where art thou?