Thy lonely watch-tower, Larenille...

Thy lonely watch-tower, Larenille, Had lost the western sun; And loud and long from hill to hill Echoed the evening-gun, When Hernan, rising on his oar, Shot like an arrow from the shore. — “Those lights are on St. Mary's Isle; They glimmer from the sacred pile.” The waves were rough; the hour was late. But soon across the Tinto borne, Thrice he blew the signal-horn, He blew and would not wait. Home by his dangerous path he went; Leaving, in rich habiliment, Two Strangers at the Convent-gate.

Brothers in arms the Guests appear'd; The Youngest with a Princely grace! Short and sable was his beard, Thoughtful and wan his face. His velvet cap a medal bore, And ermine fring'd his broider'd vest; And, ever sparkling on his breast, An image of St. John he wore.