Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/294

 That then to France and belle amour Bequeathed this mournful strain, As riding on the yellow sand With many a knightly feere, He smote his harp with feeblest hand, To sing with feebler cheer: Adieu, proud love! adieu, fair land! Where heathen banners float, This broken heart can act its part, Can die, and be forgot. Alas! too late; It was its fate To learn, with saddest pain, It loved one Who scorned to own Her heart could love again.

Fair France, farewell! my latest breath Shall still be spent for thee, While meeting strife, I court my death In distant Galilee. My soul is bound up with the glaive That glitters at my thigh, And fixed upon the banner brave Now flashing to the sky.