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.
Yet 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!