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.