The Crusader's Farewell

The banners rustle in the breeze,The angry trumpets swell;They call me, lady, from thy arms,They bid me sigh farewell!

They call me to a heathen land,To quell a heathen foe;To leave love's blandishments, and courtBude dangers, strife, and wo.

Yet deem not, lady, though afarIt be my hap to roam,That this right loyal heart can strayFrom love, from thee, and home.

No! in the tumult of the fight,Midst Salem's chivalrie,The thought that arms this hand with deathShall be the thought of thee.