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Awhile with tone and touch of love
To cheer him to his feet he strove:
Awhile he shook the bridle-rein-
That glazing eye-alas, in vain.
Bareheaded on that fatal field,
His gauntlet ringing on his shield,
His voice a torrent deep and strong,
The warrior's soul broke forth in song.

THE KNIGHT'S SONG.

And art thou, art thou dead,-
Thou with front that might defy
The gathered thunders of the sky,
Thou before whose fearless eye
All death and danger fled!

My Khalif, hast thou sped Homeward where the palm-trees' feet Bathe in hidden fountains sweet, Where first we met as lovers meet, My own, my desert-bred!

Thy back has been my home;
And, bending o'er thy flying neck,
Its white mane waving without speck,
I seemed to tread the galley's deck,
And cleave the ocean's foam.

Since first I felt thy heart
Proudly surging 'neath my knee,
As earthquakes heave beneath the sea,
Brothers in the field were we;

And must we, can we part?

To match thee there was none! The wind was laggard to thy speed: O God, there is no deeper need Than warrior's parted from his steed When years have made them one.

And shall I never more

Answer thy laugh amid the clash
Of battle, see thee meet the flash
Of spears with the proud, pauseless dash
Of billows on the shore?

And all our victor war,

And all the honors men call mine,

Were thine, thou voiceless warrior, thine;

My task was but to touch the rein-
There needed nothing more.

Worst danger had no sting

For thee, and coward peace no charm; Amid red havoc's worst alarm

Thy swoop as firm as through the storm The eagle's iron wing.

O more than man to me!

Thy neigh outsoared the trumpet's tone,
Thy back was better than a throne,
There was no human thing save one
I loved as well as thee!

O Knighthood's truest friend! Brave heart by every danger tried, Proud crest by conquest glorified, Swift saviour of my menaced Bride, Is this, is this the end?

Thrice honored be thy grave! Wherever knightly deed is sung, Wherever minstrel harp is strung, There too thy praise shall sound among The beauteous and the brave.

And thou shalt slumber deep Beneath our chapel's cypress sheen; And there thy lord and his Christine Full oft shall watch at morn and e'en Around their Khalif's sleep.

There shalt thou wait for me
Until the funeral bell shall ring,
Until the funeral censer swing,
For I would ride to meet my King,
My stainless steed, with thee!

The song has ceased, and not an eye
'Mid all those mailèd men is dry;
The brave old Baron turns aside
To crush the tear he cannot hide.

With stately step the Bridegroom went
To where, upon the battlement,
Christine herself, all weeping, leant.
Well might that crested warrior kneel
At such a shrine, well might he feel
As if the angel in her eyes

Gave all that hallows Paradise.

And when her white hands' tender spell
Upon his trembling shoulder fell,
Upward one reverent glance he cast,
Then, rising, murmured, "Mine at last!"

"Yes, thine at last!" Still stained with blood
The Dauphin's self beside them stood.

"Fast as mortal steed could flee,

My own Christine, I followed thee.
Saint George, but 'twas a gallant sight

That miscreant hurled from yonder height:
Brave boy, that single sword of thine,
Methinks, might hold all Palestine.
But see, from out the shrine of Moan
Cometh the good Monk of Cologne,
Bearing the relic rare that woke
Our warrior from his bed of oak.
See him pass with folded hands
To where the shaded chapel stands.

The Bridegroom well hath won the prize,

There stands the priest, and there the altar lies."

IV.

When the moon rose o'er lordly Miolan

That night, she wondered at those ancient walls:
Bright tapers flashing from a hundred halls

Lit all the mountain-liveried vassals ran

Trailing from bower to bower the wine-cup, wreathed With festal roses-viewless music breathed

A minstrel melody, that fell as falls

The dew, less heard than felt; and maidens laughed, Aiming their curls at swarthy men who quaffed Brimmed beakers to the newly wed: while some Old henchmen, lolling on the court-yard green Over their squandered Cyprus, vowed between Their cups, "there was no pair in Christendom To match their Savoyard and his Christine?"

The Trovère ceased, none praised the lay,
Each waited to hear what the King would say.
But the grand blue eye was on the wave,
Little recked he of the tuneless stave:
He was watching a bark just anchored fast
With England's banner at her mast,

And quoth he to the Queen, "By my halidome,
I wager our Bard Blondel hath come!"
E'en as he spoke, a joyous cry

From the beach proclaimed the Master nigh;
But the merry cheer rose merrier yet

When the Monarch and his Minstrel met,
The Prince of Song and Plantagenet.

"A song!" cried the King. "Thou art just in time
To rid our ears of a vagrant's rhyme:
Prove how that recreant voice of thine
Hath thriven at Cyprus, bard of mine!"
The Minstrel played with his golden wrest,
And began the "Fytte of the Bloody Vest."
The vanquished Trovère stole away
Unmarked by lord or ladye gay:
Perchance one quick, kind glance he caught,
Perchance that glance was all he sought.
For when Blondel would pause to tune
His harp and supplicate the moon,
It seemed as tho' the laughing sea
Caught up the vagrant melody;
And far along the listening shore,
Till every wave the burthen bore,
In long, low echoes might you hear-
"Alles, Alles zu Gott und Ihr !"

VOL. III. 23

From The Dublin Review.

THE CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS OF ALEXANDRIA-ORIGEN.

Origenis Opera Omnia, Ed. DE LA RUE, accurante J. P. MIGNE. Parisiis. S. Gregorii Thaumaturgi, Oratio Panegyrica in Origenem (Opera Omnia), accurante J. P. MIGNE. Parisiis.

LAST July we commenced a sketch of the history and labors of Origen. We resume our notes on those twenty years (211-230) which he spent with little interruption at Alexandria, engaged chiefly in the instruction of the catechumens. We have already seen what he did for the New Testament; let us now study his labors on the Old.

The authorship of that most famous Greek version of the Old Testament, the Septuagint, seems destined to be a mystery in literature. The gorgeous and circumstantial account of the Jew Aristeas, with all its details of embassy and counter-embassy, of the seventy-two venerable sages, the cells in the rock, the reverence of the Ptolemy, and the wind-up of banquets, gifts, and all good things, seems, as Dom Montfaucon says, to "savor of the fabulous." There is some little difficulty about dates in the matter of Demetrius Phalerius, the literary minister under whose auspices the event is placed. There is a far more formidable difficulty in the elevation of Philadelphus, a cruel, sensual despot, into a devout admirer of the law of Moses, bowing seven times and weeping for joy in presence of the sacred documents, and in the sudden conversion of all the cultivated

Greeks who are concerned in the story. The part of Aristeas's narration which regards the separate cells, and the wonderful agreement of the translations, is curtly set down by 'St. Jerome as a fiction. It seems probable, moreover, that the translator of the Pentateuch was not the same as the translator of the other parts of the Old Testament. In the midst of uncertainties and probabilities, however, four things seem to be tolerably clear; first, that the version called the LXX. was made at Alexandria; secondly, that it was the work of different authors; thirdly, that it was not inspired; fourthly, that it was a holy and correct version, quoted by the apostles, always used in the Greek church, and the basis of all the Latin editions before St. Jerome's Vulgate.

All the misfortunes that continual transcription, careless blundering, and wilful corruption could combine to inflict upon a manuscript had fallen to the lot of the Septuagint version at the time when it was handed Origen to be used in the instruction of the faithful and the refutation of Jew and Greek. This was only what might have been fully expected from the fact that, since the Christian era, it had become the court of appeal of two rival sets of controversialists— the Christian and the Jew. Indeed, from the very beginning it had been defective, and, if we may trust St. Jerome, designedly defective; for the Septuagint translation of the prophetical books had purposely omitted pas

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