O youths and virgins of the land! Praise ye His name, to whom alone All homage should be given; Whose glory, from the eternal throne Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven! SCENE I. Before the gates of a City in Palestine. URBAN, PRIESTS, CITIZENS, at the gates. looking from the walls above. Urb. (to a CITIZEN on the walls above.) You see their lances glistening? You can tell Others Cit. Not yet. Their march is slow; They have not reach'd the jutting cliff, where first The mountain-path divides. Urb. And now? Cit. The wood Shuts o'er their track. Now spears are flashing out— It is the banner of De Chatillon. (Very slow and mournful military music without.) This way! they come this way! Urb. All holy saints Grant that they pass us not! Those martial sounds Have a strange tone of sadness! Proudly, yet full of sorrow. Hark, they swell RAINIER DE CHATILLON enters with knights, Welcome, knights! Rai. (bending to receive the Priest's blessing.) From a lost battle. Urb. And thou bring'st the heart Whose spirit yields not to defeat. Rai. I bring My father's bier. Urb. His bier! I marvel not To see your brow thus darken'd! And he died, As he had lived, in arms? SCENE I. Before the gates of a City in Palestine. URBAN, PRIESTS, CITIZENS, at the gates. looking from the walls above. Urb. (to a CITIZEN on the walls above.) You see their lances glistening? You can tell Others Cit. Not yet. Their march is slow; They have not reach'd the jutting cliff, where first. The mountain-path divides. Urb. And now? Cit. The wood Shuts o'er their track. Now spears are flashing outIt is the banner of De Chatillon. (Very slow and mournful military music without.) This way! they come this way! Urb. All holy saints Grant that they pass us not! Those martial sounds Have a strange tone of sadness! Hark, they swell Proudly, yet full of sorrow. RAINIER DE CHATILLON enters with knights, soldiers, &c. Welcome, knights! Ye bring us timely aid! men's hearts were full Rai. (bending to receive the Priest's blessing.) From a lost battle. Urb. And thou bring'st the heart Whose spirit yields not to defeat. My father's bier. Urb. His bier! I marvel not To see your brow thus darken'd! And he died, As he had lived, in arms? |