LVIII.
They weep—those champions of the Cross—they weep,
Yet vow themselves to death!—Aye, midst that train
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep
Their lofty sacrifice!—The pang is vain,
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain
A warrior's sword.—Those men are strangers here11[1]—
The homes, they never may behold again,
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear,
LIX.
12[2]Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?
Where through dark foliage gleam the citron's dyes?
—It is their own. They see their father's towers,
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise:
They meet in soul, the bright Italian eyes,
Which long and vainly shall explore the main
For their white sail's return: the melodies
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain—
