Knight Toggenburg (Murray)

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"Sir Knight! true sister-love
 This heart devotes to thee:
No fonder seek to prove,
 For oh! it paineth me.
Calmly I see thee near,
 Calmly I see thee go:
But why that silent tear
 Is wept, I may not know."

By dumb despair oppresse'd
 The warrior's heart was wrung—
He strained her to his breast,
 Then on his charger sprung;
And summoned vassals brave
 Forth from the Switzer's land,
And sought the Holy Grave
 With red-cross pilgrim-band.

There deeds of daring might
 Were wrought by heroes' arms—
Their helmet-plumes waved bright
 Amid the Paynim-swarms:
And Toggenburg's dread name
 Struck terror to the foe,
But still no solace came
 To soothe his lonely woe.

One year he now hath pined—
 Why longer should he stay?
Repose he cannot find
 Amid the host's array.
A bark from Joppa's strand
 Sailed gentle gales beneath:
He seeks the hallowed land
 Where floats her balmy breath.

And soon a pilgrim wan
 Knocks at her castle-gate,
And hears", oh! lonely man!
 The thunder-word of fate:
"The maid thou seekest now
 Is Heaven's unspotted bride,
By yester-morning's vow
 To God himself allied."

'Tis past! He quits for aye
 His old ancestral home;
His arms with rust decay,
 His steeds at pleasure roam.
Down from his natal crags,
 Unknown to all, he hies:
A hermit's sackcloth rags
 His noble limbs disguise.

He rears a lowly hut
 Near scenes endeared by love,
Where frowns her convent shut
 'Mid shade of linden-grove:
And in that lonesome place
 He sate from dawn of day,
With hope upon his face,
 Till evening's latest ray;

Watching with earnest hope
 The convent-walls above
To mark a lattice ope,
 The lattice of his love:
To see but once her face,
 So meek and angel-mild,
Low bending down to gaze
 Upon the valley wild.

And then he sought repose,
 Consoled by visions bright,
Nor thought upon his woes
 At sweet return of light.
And thus he sate—alone—
 Long dream-like days and years,
Waiting, without a moan,
 Until the maid appears:

Waiting to see her face,
 So meek and angel-mild,
Low bending down to gaze
 Upon the valley wild.
And so he sate in death
 One summer morning, there,
Still watching from beneath
 With fond, calm, wistful stare!