THE CRUSADER.
307
He reached the castle,—the gate was thrown
Open and wide, but he stood there alone;
He entered the door,—his own step was all
That echoed within the deserted hall;
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower,
And for banner there waved one pale wall-flower;
And for sound of the trumpet and sound of the horn,
Came the scream of the owl on the night-wind borne;
And the turrets were falling, the vassals were flown,
And the bat ruled the halls he had thought his own.
His heart throbbed high: oh, never again
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain,
He never might think on his boyish years
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears
Which Hope and Memory shed when they meet.
The grave of his kindred was at his feet:
X 2
