She did not seem to have made herself heard, however, for a moment after the same voice demanded, "Is there any one that listens?" "Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, eagerly, "I listen; speak on!" "Well then, hearken," said the voice, and again a new air and a new song began. SONG. He goes away to a far distant land, With cross on his shoulder and lance in his hand; And news soon comes how his lightning brand Has scattered the hosts of paninrie. His beautiful Lady sits weeping and lone, And wishes she were where her Knight has gone; But she grieves not his absence with angry moan, For her spirit is full of his chivalry. But what are the tidings come next to her ear? Oh! tidings dark and heavy to hear; How her fearless warrior, her husband dear, Has fallen 'neath the lance of the Moslema. How, gallantly staking his life, to save From infidel hands, the Redeemer's grave, He has fought for the righteous and sleeps with the brave, 'Neath the walls of Hierosolima! 'Tis true, oh, 'tis true!--yet she will not believe, "Ah, no! e'en in dying he would not deceive; And he promised, if spirit such power could receive, And he fell in his holy chivalry. To visit my side in the watches of night, To comfort my heart, and to gladden my sight, And call me to join him in countries of light, And dwell in his breast through eternity." Years pass; and he comes not. Nor yet she believes! 'Tis his absence, but 'tis not his death that she grieves. Hope strong in affection, her heart still deceives, Lo! she watches yon Palmer how eagerly, To ask him some tidings of Syria to say-- But what is thy magic, oh, thou Palmer gray? She is clasped in his arms! she has fainted away! And he kisses her fair cheek how tenderly.