He has thrown by his helmet and cross-handled fword,
Renouncing his knighthood, denying his Lord;
He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban put on,
For the love of the maiden of fair Libanon.
And in the dread cavern, deep deep under ground,
Which fifty fteel gates, and steel portals furround,
He has watch'd until day-break, but fight faw he none,
Save the flame burning bright on its altar of stone.
Amazed was the princefs, the Soldan amazed,
Sore murmur'd the priests as on Albert they gazed;
They fearch'd all his garments, and under his weeds,
They found, and took from him, his rofary beads.
Again in the cavern, deep deep under ground,
He watch'd the lone night, while the winds whistled round;
Far off was their murmur, it came not more nigh,
The flame burn'd unmoved, and nought elfe did he spy.
Loud murmur'd the priests, and amazed was the king,
While many dark spells of their witchcraft they fing;
They fearch'd Albert's body, and lo! on his breaft
Was the fign of the Crofs, by his father imprefs'd.
The priests they erase it with care and with pain,
And the recreant return'd to the cavern again;
But as he defcended a whisper there fell !—
-It was his good angel, who bade him farewell!
High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd and beat,
And he turn'd him five fteps, half refolved to retreat;
But his heart it was harden'd, his purpose was gone,
When he thought of the maiden of fair Libanon.
Scarce pass'd he the archway, the treshold scarce trod, When the winds from the four points of heaven were abroad;
They made each steel portal to rattle and ring,
And, borne on the blaft, came the dread Fire-King.
Full fore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh,
The fire on the altar blazed bickering and high;
In volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim
The dreadful approach of the Monarch of Flame.
Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in form,
His breath it was lightning, his voice it was ftorm,
I ween the ftout heart of Count Albert was tame,
When he faw in his terrors the Monarch of Flame.
In his hand a broad faulchion blue-glimmer'd through fmoke,
And Mount Libanon shook as the monarch he spoke ;-“With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, and no
"Till thou bend to the Crofs, and the Virgin adore."
The cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon-and fee!
The recreant receives the charm'd gift on his knee.
The thunders growl diftant, and faint gleam the fires
As, born on his whirlwind, the phantom retires.
Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim among,
Though his heart it was falfe, yet his arm it was ftrong;
And the Red-crofs wax'd faint, and the Crefcent came on,
From the day he commanded on Mount Libanon.
From Libanon's forefts to Gallilee's wave,
The fands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave,
Till the Knights of the Temple, and Knights of Saint John,
With Salem's King Baldwin, against him came on.
The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied,
The lances were couch'd, and they closed on each fide;
And horsemen and horfes Count Albert o'erthrew,
Till he pierced the thick tumult King Baldwin unto.
Against the charm'd blade which Count Albert did wield,
The fence had been vain of the King's Red-crofs fhield;
But a page thrust him forward the monarch before,
And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore.
So fell was the dint, that Count Albert ftoop'd low
Before the crofs'd fhield, to his fteel faddle-bow;
And fcarce had he bent to the Red-crofs his head--
-"Bonne grace, notre Dame,"-he unwittingly faid.
Sore figh'd the charm'd fword, for its virtue was o'er,
It fprung from his grafp, and was never feen more;
But true men have faid, that the lightning's red wing
Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King.
He clench'd his fet teeth, and his gauntletted hand,
He stretch'd with one buffet that page on the ftrand;
As back from the ftrippling the broken cafque roll'd,
You might fee the blue eyes, and the ringlets of gold!
Short time had Count Albert in horror to ftare
On those death-fwimming eye-balls and blood-clotted hair,
For down came the Templars, like Cedron in flood,
And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood.
The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ifhmaelites yield
To the fcallop, the faltier, and crofletted shield,
And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead
From Bethfaida's fountains to Naphthali's head.
The battle is over on Bethfaida's plain-
Oh! who is yon Paynim lies ftretch'd mid the flain?
And who is yon page lying cold at his knee?
Oh! who but Count Albert and fair Rofalie.
The lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound,
The Count he was left to the vulture and hound;
Her foul to high mercy our Lady did bring,
His went on the blaft to the dread Fire-King.
Yet many a minstrel in harping can tell
How the Red-crofs it conquer'd, the Crefcent it fell;
And lords and gay ladies have figh'd, mid their glee,
At the Tale of Count Albert and fair Rofalie.
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