⁠'T was Godfrey of Boulogne.

Night hung upon the Danube's stream,
⁠Deep midnight on the vales;
Along the shore no beacons gleam,
⁠No sound is on the gales;
The Turkish lord has banished care,
⁠The harem sleeps profound,
Save one fair Georgian sitting there,
⁠Upon the Moslem ground;
The lightning flashed a transient gleam,
⁠A flaring banner shone,
A host swept swiftly down the stream,—
⁠'T was Godfrey of Boulogne.

'T was noon upon Byzantium,
⁠On street and tower and sea;
On Europe's edge a warlike hum,
⁠Of gathered chivalry:
A troop went boldly through the throng
⁠Of Ethiops, Arabs, Huns,
Jews, Greeks and Turks,—to right their wrong;
⁠Their swords flashed thousand suns.
Their banner cleaved Byzantium's dust,
⁠And like the sun it shone;
Their armor had acquired no rust,—
⁠'T was Godfrey of Boulogne,