Was wakened by his startled flocks,—
'T was Godfrey of Boulogne.
Night hung upon the Danube's stream,
Deep midnight on the vales;
Along the shore no beacons gleam,
No sound is on the gales;
The Turkish lord has banished care,
The harem sleeps profound,
Save one fair Georgian sitting there,
Upon the Moslem ground;
The lightning flashed a transient gleam,
A flaring banner shone,
A host swept swiftly down the stream,—
'T was Godfrey of Boulogne.
'T was noon upon Byzantium,
On street and tower and sea;
On Europe's edge a warlike hum,
Of gathered chivalry:
A troop went boldly through the throng
Of Ethiops, Arabs, Huns,
Jews, Greeks and Turks,—to right their wrong;
Their swords flashed thousand suns.
Their banner cleaved Byzantium's dust,
And like the sun it shone;
Their armor had acquired no rust,—
'T was Godfrey of Boulogne,
xxviii
