"Sir Pavon! —'T is some phantom, bred
Of famine wild and weak,
Or fever. Wherefore gaze on it?
If 't was a man, 't would speak."

Then Pavon in a storm of tears

Fell, crying, on his breast, "Forgive me, brother, if thou canst! I've known no peace or rest,

"For years or ages, but to right The wrong I did to thee,

And mine own soul, roamed o'er the earth! From henceforth thou art free."

"Go thou. I stay." A change came o'er The hunchback's raptured face: "Why stays he, Selim, know'st?" "To draw The water in thy place."

He tore his hair; he turned away;

He spake: "It shall not be !

All blessings bless thee for the thought, But 't were not meet for thee!

"Few years are left me on the earth;
And God hath taught to me,
That willing bondage borne in Christ
Is loftier liberty."

"Then grudge it not unto thy lord,"
St. Pavon following said.
The slave took up his water-pots,

Moved on, and shook his head.

"This is my penance I must do, Or be for aye abhorred

Of Heaven." "I'll help thee bear it." "Nay, Stint not mine earned reward."

St. Pavon fixed his eyes and hands
On his, and joyously

Cried, "Laggard son, thy mother waits
Aboard the ship for thee."

The new slave let the melons thirst,
Till, through the twinkling twigs
Of citron, and of orange-flowers,
And sun-bathed purple figs,

He saw the hunchback hurry o'er
The beach, and scale the deck,
Towards outstretched arms, that like a trap
Did spring to catch his neck.

Then out he let his pent-up breath,
That seemed to blow away,
In one great sigh, his life's great woe,
And to himself did say,

"Howe'er-where'er-now, in this world Or that, my lot may fall,

I bear this scene in memory;
And I can bear it all."

Joy drained his lees of life nigh-spent
All in one brimming cup,

One wasteful draught of feverish strength,
And bade him drink it up;

While to his task he turned, with mien

As eager and as bold

As when his brethren's blood plashed round His iron march of old.

"T is but a dream!" "Tis heaven." "For

me?

Not yet not yet!" he said; "I was a traitor! Give me time! Oh, let me not be dead!

"In mercy put me back to toil

And scorch; nor bid me brook,
Ere I've avenged him well on me,
Mine outraged Master's look!”

A tender smile glowed through them all :
"Brave martyr, do not fear.
Our Master calls! He waits for thee
To share his bridal cheer!

"Full many a weary year is told,

As mortals tell their years,

Since loud we struck our harps, and sang
Thy safety o'er thy tears."

Before him, spreading welcoming arms,
A shining Urban stood:

66 God gave thee grace to overcome
Thine evil with thy good.

"My lesson, brother, hast forgot? -
I taught to thee of yore,
That blessings, hid their threats amid,
The warning Scriptures bore."

St. Pavon to his dear embrace

In wildered transports sprang;

And up the sunny morn they soared.
The dwindling earth did hang

Beneath. The air flapped, white with wings
That thickened all about;

And wide a song of triumph pealed,

And rang this burden out:

And made the dancing billows glow:
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung :
"Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
English Richard ploughs the deep!
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy,
From distant towers, with anxious eye;
The radiant range of shield and lance
Down Damiscus' hills advance:
From Sion's turrets as afar

Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
Saladin, thou Paynim king,

From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
On Acre's spiry citadel,

Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictured with the silver moon:
England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain, to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray;
Those sounds our rising fury fan:
English Richard in the van,

On to victory we go,

A vaunting infidel the foe.”
Blondel led the tuneful band,

And swept the wire with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crowned,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.

Soon we kissed the sacred earth
That gave a murdered Saviour birth;
Then, with ardor fresh endued,
Thus the solemn song renewed.
"Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
Heaven's favored hills appear at last!
Object of our holy vow,

We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpled palm.
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your ravished honors to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore !
And thou, the sepulchre of God!
By mocking Pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,

And quenched thy lamps that beamed so bright;
For thee, from Britain's distant coast,

Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!
Aloft in his heroic hand,

Blazing, like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn he wields.
Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
From each wild mountain's trackless crown

In vain thy gloomy castles frown:
Thy battering engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in terrific state,

On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hushed the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight vapors damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain :
We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt!
With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doomed to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.
Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
Soon on thy battlements divine

Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
Ye barons, to the sun unfold

Our cross, with crimson wove and gold!"
THOMAS WARTON.

THE LAST CRUSADER.

LEFT to the Saviour's conquering foes,
The land that girds the Saviour's grave,
Where Godfrey's crosier-standard rose,
He saw the crescent-banner wave.

There, o'er the gently broken vale,
The halo-light on Zion glowed;
There Kedron, with a voice of wail,
By tombs of saints and heroes flowed;

There still the olives silver o'er
The dimness of the distant hill;
There still the flowers that Sharon bore
Calm air with many an odor fill.

Slowly the Last Crusader eyed

The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain,
And thought of those whose blood had dyed
The earth with crimson streams in vain!

He thought of that sublime array,
The hosts that over land and deep
The hermit marshalled on their way,
To see those towers, and halt to weep!

"From his hands the crimson liquid

On the bread he taketh, flows,
Till beneath his touch it blushes
Like the deep heart of the rose !"
Then with awe replied their master,
"O my sons, list unto me!
Know it is the sweet child Jesus,

The Holy One, that you did see!

"When again he cometh to you,

With these words your greeting be; Thou hast breakfasted with us, Grant we three may sup with thee!'” And the children did his bidding; Sweetly then the Child did say, "Be it so, on Thursday next,

Be it on Ascension-Day!"

On that day they came rejoicing,

But they brought nor milk nor bread; Served they at the Mass right gladly; "Pax Vobiscum" then was said,

But they still knelt on unheeding.
Thus they fell in Christ asleep;
Master, children, with their Saviour
Thus his marriage-feast did keep!
Feb. 12, 1873.

MARIAN LONGFELLOW.

HENRY MARTYN AT SHIRAZ.

"In consequence of his removal to a garden in the suburbs of the city, where his kind host had pitched a tent for him, he prosecuted the work before him uninterruptedly. Living amidst clusters of grapes by the side of a clear stream, and frequently sitting under the shade of an orange-tree, which Jafier Ali Khan delighted to point out to visitors, until the day of his own departure, he passed many a tranquil hour, and enjoyed many a Sabbath of holy rest and divine refreshment."Life of H. Martyn.

May 1st to 10th. -"Passed some days at Jafier Ali Khan's garden with Mirza Seid Ali, Aga Baba, Sheikh Abul Hassan, reading, at their request, the Old Testament histories. Their attention to the Word and their love and respect for me seemed to increase as the time of my departure approached. Aga Baba, who had been reading St. Matthew, related very circumstantially to the company the particulars of the death of Christ. The bed of roses on which we sat, and the notes of the nightingales warbling around us, were not so sweet to me as this discourse from the Persian."- Ibid.

The plain of Shiraz is covered with ancient ruins, and contains the tombs of the Persian poets Saadi and Hafiz.

A VISION of the bright Shiraz, of Persian bards the theme:

The vine with bunches laden hangs o'er the crystal stream;

The nightingale all day her notes in rosy thickets trills,

the distant hills.

evermore is his :