GUY OF THE TEMPLE
DOWN the dim West slow fails the stricken sun, And from his hot face fades the crimson flush Veiled in death's herald-shadows sick and gray. Silent and dark the sombre valley lies Forgotten; happy in the late fond beams Glimmer the constant waves of Galilee. Afar, below, in airy music ring The bugles of my host; the column halts, A wearied serpent glittering in the vale, Where rising mist-like gleam the tented camps.
Pitch my pavilion here, where its high cross May catch the last light lingering on the hill. The savage shadows, struggling by the shore, Have conquered in the valley; inch by inch The vanquished light fights bravely to these crags To perish glorious in the sunset fire; Even as our hunted Cause, so pressed and torn