What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? The varying fortune of each separate field, The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? In this the struggle was the same with all; Save that distemper'd passions lent their force

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain,

The captive died upon the battle-slain :
In either cause, one rage alone possest
The empire of the alternate victor's breast;
And they that smote for freedom or for

sway,

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd

to slay. It was too late to check the wasting brand, And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land; The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread,

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead.

;

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, The first success to Lara's numbers clung: But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, They form no longer to their leader's call In blind confusion on the foe they press, And think to snatch is to secure success. The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, Lure on the broken brigands to their fate; In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, To check the headlong fury of that crew; In vain their stubborn ardour be would tame, The hand that kindles cannot quench the

flame;

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, And shown their rashness to that erring

brood:

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, The daily harras, and the fight delay'd, The long privation of the hoped supply, The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's

art,

And palls the patience of his baffled heart, Of these they had not deem'd: the battle-day They could encounter as a veteran may, But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, And present death to hourly suffering life:

And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away His numbers melting fast from their array; Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent: But few remain to aid his voice and hand, And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd

To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. One hope survives, the frontier is not far, And thence they may escape from native war; And bear within them to the neighbouring

state

An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate: Hard is the task their father-land to quit, But harder still to perish or submit.

It is resolved-they march-consenting Night Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight;

Already they perceive its tranquil beam Sleep on the surface of the barrier-stream; Already they descry-Is yon the bank? Away! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. Return or fly!-What glitters in the rear? 'Tis Otho's banner-the pursuer's spear! Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height?

Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight: Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil!

Commanding, aiding, animating all, Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel,

Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel. None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain;

But those that waver turn to smite again, While yet they find the firmest of the foe Recoil before their leader's look and blow: Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, He foils their ranks, or reunites his own; Himself he spared not once they seem'd to fly

Now was the time, he waved his hand on high,

And shook—why sudden droops that plumed

crest?

The shaft is sped-the arrow's in his breast! That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride.

The word of triumph fainted from his
tongue;
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it
hung!

But yet the sword instinctively retains,
Though from its fellow shrink the falling
reins;
These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow,
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow,
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage:
Meantime his followers charge, and charge
again;

Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain!

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; The war-horse masterless is on the earth, And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth;

And near yet quivering with what life remain'd,

The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd;

And some too near that rolling torrent lie, Whose waters mock the lip of those that die; That panting thirst which scorches in the breath

Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, In vain impels the burning mouth to crave One drop-the last-to cool it for the grave; With feeble and convulsive effort swept, Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept;

The faint remains of life such struggles

waste,

breathing but devoted warrior lay: Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, His follower once, and now his only guide, And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush,

With each convulsion, in a blacker gush;
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low,
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow:
He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis
vain,

And merely adds another throb to pain.
He clasps the hand that pang which would

assuage,

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds,

nor sees,

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees;

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, Held all the light that shone on earth for him.

The foe arrives, who Their triumph nought

They would remove him,

long had search'd the field, till Lara too should yield; but they see 'twere vain, That rose to reconcile him with his fate, And he regards them with a calm disdain, And that escape to death from living hate: And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed,

And questions of his state; he answers not, Scarce glances on him as on one forgot,

And she would sit beneath the very tree Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; And in that posture where she saw him fall, His words, his looks, his dying grasp recal; And she had shorn, but saved her ravenhair,

And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,

Herself would question, and for him reply; Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly From some imagined spectre in pursuit; Then seat her down upon some linden's root,

And hide her visage with her meagre hand, Or trace strange characters along the sand— This could not last-she lies by him she loved; her truth too dearly proved.

wound.

MANY a vanish'd year and age,
And tempest's breath, and battle's rage,
Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands
A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands.
The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's
shock,

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock,
The keystone of a land, which still,
Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill,
The land-mark to the double tide
That purpling rolls on either side,
As if their waters chafed to meet,
Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet.
But could the blood before her shed
Since first Timoleon's brother bled,
Or baffled Persia's despot fled,
Arise from out the earth which drank
The stream of slaughter as it sank,
That sanguine occan would o'erflow
Her isthmus idly spread below:
Or could the bones of all the slain,
Who perish'd there, be piled again,
That rival pyramid would rise
More mountain-like, through those
skies,

and the governor seeing it was impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat a parley: but while they were treating about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred men were killed: which so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war."History of the Turks, vol. III. p. 151.

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; And downward to the Isthmian plain From shore to shore of either main, The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; And the dusk Spahi's bands advance Beneath each bearded pasha's glance; And far and wide as eye can reach The turban'd cohorts throng the beach; And there the Arab's camel kneels, And there his steed the Tartar wheels; The Turcoman hath left his herd, The sabre round his loins to gird; And there the volleying thunders pour, Till waves grow smoother to the roar. The trench is dug, the cannon's breath Wings the far hissing globe of death; Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, Which crumbles with the ponderous ball; And from that wall the foe replies, O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, With fires that answer fast and well The summons of the Infidel.

clear

Than yon tower-capt Acropolis Which seems the very clouds to kiss.

But near and nearest to the wall Of those who wish and work its fall