Her voice less lively in the song, Her step, though light, less fleet among The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance Breaks, yet unsated with the dance.
Sent by the state to guard the land, (Which wrested from the Moslem's hand, While Sobieski tamed his pride By Buda's wall and Danube's side, The chiefs of Venice wrung away From Patra to Euboea's bay,) Minotti held in Corinth's towers The Doge's delegated powers, While yet the pitying eye of Peace Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece: And ere that faithless truce was broke Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, With him his gentle daughter came Nor there, since Menelaus' dame Forsook her lord and land, to prove What woes await on lawless love, Had fairer form adorn'd the shore Than she, the matchless stranger, bore.
The wall is rent, the ruins yawn, And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, O'er the disjointed mass shall vault The foremost of the fierce assault. The bands are rank'd; the chosen van Of Tartar and of Mussulman, The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn," Who hold the thought of death in scorn, And win their way with falchion's force, Or pave the path with many a corse, O'er which the following brave may rise, Their stepping-stone-the last who dies
"Tis midnight: on the mountains brown The cold, round moon shines deeply down Blue roll the waters, blue the sky Spreads like an ocean hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light, So wildly, spiritually bright; Who ever gazed upon them shining, And turn'd to earth without repining, Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, And mix with their eternal ray? The waves on either shore lay there Calm, clear, and azure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, But murmur'd meekly as the brook. The winds were pillow'd on the waves; The banners droop'd along their staves, And, as they fell around them furling, Above them shone the crescent curling; And that deep silence was unbroke, Save where the watch his signal spoke, Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, And echo answer'd from the hill, And the wide hum of that wild host Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, As rose the Muezzin's voice in air In midnight call to wonted prayer; It rose, that chanted mournful strain, Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: Twas musical, but sadly sweet, Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, And take a long unmeasured tone, To mortal minstrelsy unknown. It seem'd to those within the wall
A cry prophetic of their fall:
It struck even the besieger's ear With something ominous and drear, An undefined and sudden thrill, Which makes the heart a moment still, Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed Of that strange sense its silence framed; Such as a sudden passing-bell Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.
The tent of Alp was on the shore; The sound was hush'd, the prayer was oor; The watch was set, the night-round made, All mandates issued and obey'd: "T is but another anxious night, His pains the morrow may requite With all revenge and love can pay, In guerdon for their long delay. Few hours remain, and he hath need Of rest, to nerve for many a deed Of slaughter; but within his soul The thoughts like troubled waters roll. He stood alone among the host; Not his the loud fanatic boast To plant the crescent o'er the cross, Or risk a life with little loss, Secure in paradise to be
By Houris loved immortally: Nor his, what burning patriots feel, The stern exaltedness of zeal, Profuse of blood, untired in toil, When battling on the parent soil. He stood alone-a renegade Against the country he betray'd; He stood alone amidst his band, Without a trusted heart or hand: They follow'd him, for he was brave, And great the spoil he got and gave; They crouch'd to him, for he had skill To warp and wield the vulgar will; But still his Christian origin
With them was little less than sin. They envied even the faithless fame He earn'd beneath a Moslem name; Since he, their mightiest chief, had been In youth a bitter Nazarene.
They did not know how pride can stoop, When baffled feelings withering droop; They did not know how hate can burn In hearts once changed from soft to stern; Nor all the false and fatal zeal
The convert of revenge can feel. He ruled them-man may rule the worst, By ever daring to be first:
So lions o'er the jackal sway;
The jackal points, he fells the prey, Then on the vulgar yelling press, To gorge the relics of success.
His head grows fever'd, and his pulse The quick successive throbs convulse; In vain from side to side he throws His form, in courtship of repose; Or if he dozed, a sound, a start Awoke him with a' sunken heart. The turban on his hot brow press'd, The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast. Though oft and long beneath its weight Upon his eyes had slumber sate, Without or couch or canopy, Except a rougher field and sky Than now might yield a warrior's bed.
Than now along the heaven was spread;
He could not rest, he could not stay Within his tent to wait for day,
But walk'd him forth along the sand, Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. What pillow'd them? and why should he More wakeful than the humblest be, Since more their peril, worse their toil? And yet they fearless dream of spoil; While he alone, where thousands pass'd A night of sleep, perchance their last In sickly vigil wander'd on, And envied all he gazed upon.
He felt his soul become more light Beneath the freshness of the night. Cool was the silent sky though calm, And bathed his brow with airy balm. Behind, the camp-before him lay, In many a winding creek and bay, Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, High and eternal, such as shone Through thousand summers brightly gone, Along the gulf, the mount, the clime; It will not melt, like man, to time: Tyrant and slave are swept away, Less form'd to wear before the ray; But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, While tower and tree are torn and rent, Shines o'er its craggy battlement; In form a peak, in height a cloud, In texture like a hovering shroud, Thus high by parting Freedom spread, As from her fond abode she fled, And linger'd on the spot, where long Her prophet spirit spake in song. Oh, still her step at moments falters O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars,
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, By pointing to each glorious token. But vain her voice, till better days Dawn in those yet remember'd rays Which shone upon the Persian flying, And saw the Spartan smile in dying.
Not mindless of these mighty times Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; And through this night, as on he wander'd, And o'er the past and present ponder'd, And thought upon the glorious dead Who there in better cause had bled, He felt how faint and feebly dim The fame that could accrue to him,
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, A traitor in a turban'd horde; And led them to the lawless siege, Whose best success were sacrilege. Not so had those his fancy number'd,
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd; Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. They fell devoted, but undying; The very gale their names seem'd sighing: The waters murmur'd of their name; The woods were peopled with their fame; The silent pillar, lone and gray, Claini'd kindred with their sacred clay; The spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain; The meanest rill, the mightiest river Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. Despite of every yoke she bears, The and is glory's still and theirs!
"T is still a watchword to the earth: When man would do a deed of worth He points to Greece, and turns to tread, So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head: He looks to her, and rushes on Where life is lost, or freedom won.
Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,' Which changeless rolls eternally;
So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood; And the powerless moon beholds them flow, Heedless if she come or go:
Calm or high, in main or bay,
On their course she hath no sway. The rock unworn its base doth bare, And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there; And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, On the line that it left long ages ago: A smooth short space of yellow sand Between it and the greener land.
He wander'd on, along the beach,
Till within the range of a carbine's reach Of the leaguer'd wall; but they saw him not, Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold? Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax d
I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town; Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell The sullen words of the sentinel,
As his measured step on the stone below Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro;
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall Hold o'er the dead their carnival,
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb; They were too busy to bark at him!
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull,
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed;
So well had they broken a lingering fast
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band: Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair All the rest was shaven and bare.
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, The hair was tangled round his jaw. But close by the shore, on the edge of the gult, There sat a vulture flapping a wolf. Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, Scared by the dogs, from the human prey; But he seized on his share of a steed that lay Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay.
Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight: Never had shaken his nerves in fight, But he better could brook to behold the dying, Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vaba Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
There is something of pride in the perilous hour, Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower; For Fame is there to say who bleeds,
And Honour's eye on daring deeds!
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, Beasts of the forest, all gathering there;" All regarding man as their prey, All rejoicing in his decay.
There is a temple in ruin stands, Fashion'd by long forgotten hands;
Two or three columns, and many a stone, Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! Out upon Time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before! Out upon Time! who for ever will leave But enough of the part for the future to grieve O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be:
What we have seen, our sons shall see; Remnants of things that have pass'd away, Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay!
He sate him down at a pillar's base, And pass'd his hand athwart has face; Like one in dreary musing mood, Declining was his attitude.
His head was drooping on his breast, Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest;
And o'er his brow, so downward bent, Oft his beating fingers went, Hurriedly, as you may see Your own run over the ivory key, Ere the measured tone is taken By the chords you would awaken. There he sate all heavily,
As he heard the night-wind sigh.
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, Sent that soft and tender moan?
He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, But it was unrippled as glass may be;
He look'd on the long grass-it waved not a blade; How was that gentle sound convey'd ?
He look'd to the banners-each flag lay still, So did the leaves on Citharon's hill,
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; What did that sudden sound bespeak? He turn'd to the left-is he sure of sight? There sate a lady, youthful and bright!
He started up with more of fear Than if an armed foe were near. "God of my fathers! what is here? Who art thou, and wherefore sent So near a hostile armament?" His trembling hands refused to sign The cross he deem'd no more divine: He had resumed it in that hour, But conscience wrung away the power. He gazed, he saw: he knew the face Of beauty, and the form of grace; It was Francesca by his side, The maid who might have been his bride!
The rose was yet upon her cheek, But mellow'd with a tenderer streak: Where was the play of her soft lips fled? Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. The ocean's calm within their view, Beside her eye had less of bluc;
But like that cold wave it stood stil! And its glance, though clear, was chill; Around her form a thin robe twining, Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; Through the parting of her hair, Floating darkly downward there,
Her rounded arm show'd white and bare: And ere yet she made reply,
Once she raised her hand on high;
It was so wan, and transparent of hue, You might have seen the moon shine through.
"I come from my rest to him I love best, That I may be happy, and he may be blest. I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall Sought thee in safety through foes and all. "T is said the lion will turn and flee From a maid in the pride of her purity; And the Power on high, that can shield the good Thus from the tyrant of the wood,
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well From the hands of the leaguering infidel.
I come and if I come in vain, Never, oh never, we meet again! Thou hast done a fearful deed
In falling away from thy father's creed: But dash that turban to earth, and sign The sign of the cross, and for ever be mino Wring the black drop from thy heart, And to-morrow unites us no more to part."
"And where should our bridal couch be spread? In the midst of the dying and the dead?
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. None, save thou and thine, I've sworn,
Shall be left upon the morn:
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,
Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot.
There thou yet shalt be my bride, When once again I've quell'd the pride
Of Venice; and her hated race
Have felt the arm they would debasc Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those Whom vice and envy made my foes."
Upon his hand she laid her own
Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, And shot a chillness to his heart,
Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, He could not loose him from its hold
But never did clasp of one so dear Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers, long and white, Froze through his blood by their touch that night. The feverish glow of his brow was gone, And his heart sank so still that felt like stone, As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue So deeply changed from what he knew: Fair but faint-without the ray
Of mind, that made each feature play Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; And her motionless lips lay stil: as death, And her words came forth without her breath, And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd With aught of change, as the eyes may seem Of the restless who walk in a troubled dreain; Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;
As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
From the shadowy wall where their images frown; Fearfully flitting to and fro,
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. "If not for love of me be given
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,- Again I say that turban tear
From off thy faithless brow, and swear Thine injured country's sons to spare, Or thou art lost; and never shalt see Not earth-that's past-but heaven or me. If this thou dost accord, albeit A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, That doom shall half absolve thy sin,
And mercy's gate may receive thee within: But pause one moment more, and take The curse of Him thou didst forsake; And look once more to heaven, and see Its love for ever shut from thee. There is a light cloud by the moon- 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon- If, by the time its vapoury sail Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, Thy heart within thee is not changed, Then God and man are both avenged; Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill."
Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky;
But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside
By deep interminable pride.
This first false passion of his breast
Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest.
He sue for mercy! He dismay'd By wild words of a timid maid! He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save
Her sons, devoted to the grave!
No-though that cloud were thunder's worst, And charged to crush him-let it burst!
He look'd upon it earnestly, Without an accent of reply; He watch'd it passing; it is flown: Full on his eye the clear moon shone, And thus he spake-"Whate'er my fate, I am no changeling 't is too late: The reed in storms may bow and quiver, Then rise again; the tree must shiver. What Venice made me, I must be, Her foe in all, save love to thee: But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!" He turn'd, but she is gone!
Nothing is there but the column stone.
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there.
The night is past, and shines the sun As if that morn were a jocund one.
Lightly and brightly breaks away
The Morning from her mantle gray, And the Noon will look on a sultry day. Hark to the trump, and the drum,
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, "they come, they come!" The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword
From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman,
Strike your tents, and throng to the van; Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, That the fugitive may flee in vain,
When he breaks from the town; and none escape, Aged or young, in the Christian shape; While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein; Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; White is the foam of their champ on the bit: The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, And crush the wall they have crumbled before: Forms in his phalanx each Janizar;
Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, So is the blade of his scimitar;
The khan and the pachas are all at their post: The vizier himself at the head of the host. When the culverin's signal is fired, then on Leave not in Corinth a living one-
A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. God and the prophet-Alla Hu!
Up to the skies with that wild halloo !
"There the breach lies for passage the ladder to scale; And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye
He who first downs with the red cross may crave His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have " Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire; Silence-hark to the signal-fire!
As the wolves, that headlong go On the stately buffalo,
Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, He tramples on the earth, or tosses on high
The foremost, who rush on his strength but ⚫. 10 Thus against the wall they went,
Thus the first were backwark bent; Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, Strew'd the earth like broken glass, Shiver'd by the shot, that tore
The ground whereon they moved no more⚫ Even as they fell, in files they lay,
Like the mower's grass at the close of day, When his work is done on the levell'd plain; Such was the fall of the foremost slain.
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, From the cliffs invading dash
Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow Till white and thundering down they go,
Like the avalanche's snow
On the Alpine vales below;
Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,
Corinth's sons were downward borne
By the long and oft renew'd
Charge of the Moslem multitude.
In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,
Heap'd, by the host of the infidel,
Hand to hand, and foot to foot:
Nothing there, save death, was mute; Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry For quarter, or for victory,
Mingle there with the volleying thunder, Which makes the distant cities wonder How the sounding battle goes,
If with them, or for their foes;
If they must mourn, or may rejoice In that annihilating voice,
Which pierces the deep hills through and through
With an echo dread and new:
You might have heard it, on that day,
O'er Salamis and Megara;
(We have heard the hearers say,)
Even unto Piræus bay.
From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, Sabres and swords with blood were gilt; But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, And all but the after carnage done. Shriller shrieks now mingling coine From within the plunder'd dome: Hark to the haste of flying feet,
That splash in the blood of the slippery street; But here and there, where 'vantage ground Against the foe may still be found, Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, Make a pause, and turn again— With banded backs against the wall, Fiercely stand, or fighting fall.
There stood an old man-his hairs were white, But his veteran arm was full of might: So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, The dead before him, on that day,
In a semicircle lay;
Still he combated unwounded,
Though retreating, unsurrounded. Many a scar of former fight Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright; But of every wound his body bore, Each and all had been ta'en before: Though aged, he was so iron of limb, Few of our youth could cope with him; And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. From right to left his sabre swept: Many an Othman mother wept Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd His weapon first in Moslem gore, Ere his years could count a score. Of all he might have been the sire Who fell that day beneath his ire: For, sonless left long years ago, His wrath made many a childless foe; And since the day, when in the strait His only boy had met his fate, His parent's iron hand did doom More than a human hecatomb. If shades by carnage be appeased, Patroclus' spirit less was pleased Than his, Minotti's son, who died Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. Buried he lay, where thousands before
For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore; What of them is left, to tell
Where they lie, and how they fell?
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; But they live in the verse that immortally saves.
Alp is but known by the white arm bare, Look through the thick of the fight, 't is there; There is not a standard on that shore So well advanced the ranks before; There is not a banner in Moslem war Will lure the Delhis half so far; It glances like a falling star! Where'er that mighty arm is seen, The bravest be, or late have been; There the craven cries for quarter Vainly to the vengeful Tartar; Or the hero, silent lying, Scorns to yeild a groan in dying; Mustering his last feeble blow 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe,
Though faint beneath the mutual wound, Grappling on the gory ground.
"Francesca!-Oh my promised bride!
Must she too perish by thy pride?"
"She is safe"-"Where? where ?"-"In heaven;
From whence the traitor soul is driven
Far from thee, and undefiled."
Grimly then Minoti smiled,
As he saw Alp staggering bow
Before his words, as with a blow.
"Oh God! when died she?"-" Yesternight
Nor weep I for her spirit's flight:
None of my pure race shall be
Slaves to Mahomet and thee
Come on "-That challenge is in vain—
Alp's already with the slain!
While Minotti's words were wreaking
More revenge in bitter speaking
Than his falchion's point had found,
Had the time allow'd to wound, From within the neighbouring porch Of a long defended church, Where the last and desperate few Would the failing fight renew,
The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground; Ere an eye could view the wound
That crash'd through the brain of the intel, Round he spun, and down he fell; A flash like fire within his eyes Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, And then eternal darkness sunk Through all the palpitating trunk; Nought of life left, save a quivering Where his limbs were slightly shivering: They turn'd him on his back; his breast And brow were stain'd with gore and dust. And through his lips the life-blood oozed, From its deep veins lately loosed; But in his pulse there was no throb, Nor on his lips one dying sob; Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath Heralded his way to death: Ere his very thought could pray, Unanel'd he pass'd away, Without a hope from mercy's aid,- To the last a renegade.
Fearfully the yell arose
Of his followers, and his foes; These in joy, in fury those:
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