IX.

Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping! Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high, And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine, And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!