THE GREY CROSS.

A GREY Cross stands beneath yon old beech tree;

It marks a soldier's and a maiden's grave:

Around it is a grove of orange-trees,

With silver blossoms and with golden fruit.

It was a Spaniard, whom he saved from death,

Raised that Cross o'er the gallant Englishman.

He left home a young soldier, full of hope

And enterprise;--he fell in his first field!

There came a lovely pilgrim to his tomb,

The blue-eyed girl, his own betrothed bride,--

Pale, delicate,--one looking as the gale

That bowed the rose could sweep her from the earth.

Yyet she had left her home, where every look

Had been watched, oh, so tenderly!--and miles,

Long weary miles, had wandered. When she came

To the dim shadow of the aged beech,

She was worn to a shadow; colourless

The cheek once dyed by her own mountain-rose.

She reached the grave, and died upon the sod!

They laid her by her lover:--and her tale

Is often on the songs that the guitar

Echoes in the lime valleys of Castile!