Let such a sense of Thee,

Thy watching presence, Thy sustaining love,
His bosom-guest inalienably be,
That, wheresoe'er he move,

A heavenly light serene

Upon his heart and mien

May sit undimm'd! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!

So let him walk with Thee,

Made by Thy Spirit free;

And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place, To his last hour be still that sweetness given, That joyful trust! and brightly let him part, With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, Mature to meet in heaven

His Saviour's face!

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.*

"Thou falcon-hearted dove !"-COLERIDGE.

THE Moslem spears were gleaming

Round Damietta's towers,

Though a Christian banner from her wall

*

Waved free its lily-flowers.

Queen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietta, during the captivity of the King, her husband, she there gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed to her that the Knights entrusted with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her apartment, and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last extremity.

Ay, proudly did that banner wave,

As queen of earth and air;

But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds

In anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon

Their kingly chieftain lay,

And low on many an Eastern field
Their knighthood's best array.

'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,
The wine-cup round to send ;
For each that touch'd it silently
Then miss'd a gallant friend.

And mournful was their vigil
On the beleaguer'd wall,

And dark their slumber, dark with dreams

Of slow defeat and fall.

Yet a few hearts of chivalry

Rose high to breast the storm; And one-of all the loftiest there-Thrill'd in a woman's form.

A woman meekly bending

O'er the slumber of her child
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,
As the Virgin Mother's mild.

O! roughly cradled was thy babe,

'Midst the clash of spear and lance,

And a strange wild bower was thine, young Queen!
Fair Marguerite of France !

A dark and vaulted chamber,
Like a scene for wizard-spell,

Deep in the Saracenic gloom
Of the warrior citadel;

And there 'midst arms the couch was spread,
And with banners curtain'd o'er,
For the Daughter of the minstrel-land,
The gay Provençal shore !

For the bright Queen of St. Louis,
The star of court and hall!-

But the deep strength of the gentle heart
Wakes to the tempest call !

Her lord was in the Paynim's hold,

His soul with grief oppress'd,

Yet calmly lay the desolate,

With her young babe on her breast!

There were voices in the city,

Voices of wrath and fear:

"The walls grow weak, the strife is vain,
We will not perish here!

Yield yield and let the Crescent gleam
O'er tower and bastion high !
Our distant homes are beautiful;
We stay not here to die!"

They bore those fearful tidings

To the sad Queen where she lay ; They told a tale of wavering hearts,

Of treason and dismay :

The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek,

The sparkle to her eye,—

"Now call me hither those recreant knights,

From the bands of Italy !"*

*The French historians attribute the proposal to capi

tulate to the Knights of Pisa.

Then through the vaulted chambers

Stern iron footsteps rang;
And heavily the sounding floor
Gave back the sabre's clang.

They stood around her-steel-clad men,
Moulded for storm and fight;

But they quail'd before the loftier soul
In that pale aspect bright.

Yes-as before the Falcon shrinks
The bird of meaner wing,

So shrank they from the' imperial glance
Of Her—that fragile thing!

And her flute-like voice rose clear and high,
Through the din of arms around,

Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,

As a silver clarion's sound.

"The honour of the Lily

Is in your hands to keep;

And the banner of the Cross, for Him
Who died on Calvary's steep;

And the city which for Christian prayer

Hath heard the holy bell:

And is it these your hearts would yield

To the godless Infidel ?

"Then bring me here a breastplate,

And a helm, before ye fly,

And I will gird my woman's form,

And on the ramparts die!

And the boy whom I have borne for woe,

But never for disgrace,

Shall go within my arms to death

Meet for his royal race.

"Look on him as he slumbers

In the shadow of the lance !
Then go, and with the Cross forsake
The princely Babe of France!
But tell your homes ye left one heart

To perish undefiled,

A woman and a Queen, to guard
Her honour and her child!"

Before her words they thrill'd like leaves,
When winds are in the wood;

And a deepening murmur told of men
Roused to a loftier mood.

And her babe awoke to flashing swords,
Unsheathed in many a hand,

As they gather'd round the helpless one,
Again a noble band!

"We are thy warriors, lady!

True to the Cross and thee !

The spirit of thy kindling words
On every sword shall be !
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast,
Rest; we will guard thee well!

St. Dennis for the Lily-flower,

And the Christian citadel!"

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

Born, 1793; Died, 1847.

ABIDE WITH ME!

ABIDE with me! fast falls the eventide ;
The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!