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AGHASIHAN, the Turkish Prince, or Emir of Antioch, had under his command an Armenian of the name of Phirouz, whom he had entrusted with the defence of a tower on that part of the city wall which overlooked the passes of the mountains.

Bohemund, by means of a spy, who had embraced the Christian religion, and to whom he had given his own name at baptism, kept up a daily communication with this captain, and made him the most magnificent promises of reward

if he would deliver up his post to the CruWhether the proposal was first made by Bohemund or by the Armenian, is uncertain, but that a good understanding soon existed between them is undoubted; and a night was fixed for the execution of the project. Bohemund communicated the scheme to Godfrey and the Count of Toulouse, with the stipulation that, if the city were won, he, as the soul of the enterprise, should enjoy the dignity of Prince of Antioch. The other leaders hesitated : ambition and jealousy prompted them to refuse their aid in furthering the views of the intriguer. More mature consideration decided them to acquiesce, and seven hundred of the bravest knights were chosen for the expedition, the real object of which, for fear of spies, was kept a profound secret from the rest of the army. .



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Everthing favoured the treacherous project of the Armenian captain, who, on his solitary watch-tower, received due intimation of the approach of the Crusaders. The night was dark and stormy: not a star was visible above; and the wind howled so furiously as to overpower all other sounds. The rain fell in torrents, and the watchers on the towers adjoining to that of Phirouz could not hear the tramp of the armed knights for the wind, nor see them for the obscurity of the night and the dismalness of the weather. When within bow-shot of the walls, Bohemund sent forward an interpreter to confer with the Armenian. The latter urged them to make haste and seize the favourable interval, as armed men, with lighted torches, patrolled the battlements every half-hour, and at that instant they had just passed. The chiefs were instantly at the foot of the wall. Phirouz let down a rope; Bohemund attached to it a ladder of hides, which was then raised by the Armenian, and held while the knights mounted. A momentary fear came over the spirits of the adventurers, and every one


hesitated; at last Bohemund, encouraged by Phironz from above, ascended a few steps on the ladder, and was followed by Godfrey, Count Robert of Flanders, and a number of other knights. As they advanced, others pressed forward, until their weight became too great for the ladder, which, breaking, precipitated about a dozen of them to the ground, where they fell one upon the other, making a great clatter with their heavy coats of mail. For a moment they thought all was lost; but the wind made so loud a howling, as it swept in fierce gusts through the mountain gorges, and the Orontes, swollen by the rain, rushed so noisily along, that the guards heard nothing. The ladder was easily repaired, and the knights ascended, two at a time, and reached the platform in safety. When sixty of them had thus ascended, the torch of the coming patrol was seen to gleam at the angle of the wall. Hiding themselves behind a buttress, they awaited his coming in breathless silence. As soon as he arrived at arm's length, he was suddenly seized ; and before he could open his lips to raise an alarm, the silence of death closed them up for ever. They next descended rapidly the spiral staircase of the tower, and, opening the portal, admitted the whole of their companions. Raymond of Toulouse, who, cognizant of the whole plan, had been left behind with the main body of the army, heard at this instant the signal horn, which announced that an entry had been effected, and advancing with his legions, the town was attacked from within and from without.

Imagination cannot conceive a scene more dreadful than that presented by the devoted city of Antioch on that night of horror. The Crusaders fought with a blind fury, which fanaticism and suffering alike incited. Men, women, and children were indiscriminately slaughtered, till the streets ran in gore. Darkness increased the destruction ; for, when the morning dawned, the Crusaders found themselves with their swords at the breasts of their fellow-soldiers, whom they had mistaken to be foes. The Turkish commander fled, first to the citadel, and, that becoming insecure, to the mountains, whither he was pursued and slain, and his gory head brought back to Antioch as a trophy. At daylight the massacre ceased, and the Crusaders gave themselves up to plunder.—Popular Delusions.

O, take thine angle, and with practised line,

Light as the gossamer, the current sweep;

And if thou failest in the calm, still deep,
In the rough eddy may a prize be thine.
Say thou 'rt unlucky where the sunbeams shine ;

Beneath the shadow where the waters creep

Perchance the monarch of the brook shall leap-
For Fate is ever better than Design.
Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows

For thee may blow with fame and fortune rife.
prosperous ;

and what reck if it arose
Out of some pebble with the stream at strife,
Or that the light wind dallied with the boughs :

Thou art successful--such is human life.—DOUBLEDAY.

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Mariana in the moated grange.—Measure for Measure.
With blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all ;
The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange

Uplifted was the clinking latch,

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch,
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary—
He cometh not,

she said ;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,

I would that I were dead!"

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Her tears fell with the dews at even

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement-curtain by,
4nd glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary-

He cometh not," she said ;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,

I would that I were dead!”


Upon the middle of the night,

Waking, she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light;

From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her. Without hope of change,

In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary-

He cometh not," she said ;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,

I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept; And o'er it many, round and small,

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Ilard by, a poplar shook alway,

All silver-green with gnarled bark;

For leagues, no other tree did dark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary-

He cometh not, she said;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,

I would that I were dead!"

And ever, when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and

away In the white curtain, to and fro

She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary-

He cometh not," she said ;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,

I would that I were dead!"

All day, within the dreary house,

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue-fly sang

i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mould'ring wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about.

Old faces glimmer'd through the doors ;

Old footsteps trod the upper floors ;
Old voices called her from without:
She only said, "My life is dreary-

He cometh not," she said ;
She said, "I am aweary, weary,

I would that I were dead!"

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