(Bohemund.)

But this of princes' lot I deem The crowning treasure, joy supreme-- Of love the triumph and the prize, The beauty, star of neighboring eyes! She blooms for him alone, He calls the fairest maid his own.

(ROGER).

Armed for the deadly fray, The corsair bounds upon the strand, And drags, amid the gloom of night, away, The shrieking captive train, Of wild desires the hapless prey; But ne'er his lawless hands profane The gem--the peerless flower-- Whose charms shall deck the Sultan's bower.