The Crusade

A field of fire where hails of bullets streak, Across the holy lands of God and men. Exalted knights with weapons breathing rage, The hearts and hopes of every heathen rend. When glint of steel and clouds of dust give way, Such glorious scenes of blessed pain remained. I gaze upon the blasted ruin of God, The gates of heaven; by holy blood be stained! I sing the praises in an empty hall; Sepulchral shadows flit in paradise. I find myself alone in gilded pall, Surrounded by the spectres of the dead.