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-'tis 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, steed, and the multitude's hum, shout, "they come, they come!"
And the neigh of the And the clash, and the
The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground,
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
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 fail? 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 earth, or tosses on high The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die:
Thus against the wall they went, Thus the first were backward bent; Strew'd the earth like broken glass, Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, The ground whereon they moved no more: Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 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,
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? their graves;
Which pierces the deep hills through and Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in
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 Piraeus 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 come 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 Lurked 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,
But they live in the verse that immortally
Hark to the Allah shout! a band Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand:
Their leader's nervous arm is hare, Swifter to smite, and never to spare- Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on; Thus in the fight is he ever known: Others a gaudier garb may show, To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; Many a hand's on a richer hilt, But none on a steel more ruddily gilt: Many a loftier turban may wear,- Alp is but known by the white arm bare; Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis 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 yield 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.
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 dash'd Alp to the ground; Ere an eye could view the wound That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 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, Unaneal'd he pass'd away,
Without a hope from mercy's aid, To the last a renegade.
Of his followers, and his foes; These in joy, in fury those: Then again in conflict mixing, Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, Interchanged the blow and thrust, Hurling warriors in the dust. Street by street, and foot by foot, Still Minotti dares dispute The latest portion of the land Left beneath his high command; With him, aiding heart and hand, The remnant of his gallant band. Still the church is tenable, Whence issued late the fated ball That half avenged the city's fall, When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell: Thither bending sternly back, They leave before a bloody track; And, with their faces to the foe, Dealing wounds with every blow, The chief, and his retreating train; Join to those within the fane: There they yet may breathe awhile, Shelter'd by the massy pile.
Brief breathing-time! the turban'd host, With added ranks and raging boast, Press onwards with such strength and heat, Their numbers balk their own retreat; For narrow the way that led to the spot Where still the Christians yielded not; And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try Through the massy column to turn and fly; They perforce must do or die.
They die; but, ere their eyes could close, Avengers o'er their bodies rose; Fresh and furious, fast they fill The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd
And faint the weary Christians wax Before the still renew'd attacks: And now the Othmans gain the gate; Still resists its iron weight, And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, From every crevice comes the shot; From every shatter'd window pour The volleys of the sulphurous shower: But the portal wavering grows and weak- The iron yields, the hinges creak— It bends-it falls-and all is o'er; Lost Corinth may resist no more!
Darkly, sternly, and all alone, Minotti stood o'er the altar-stone: Madonna's face upon him shone, Painted in heavenly hues above, With eyes of light and looks of love; And placed upon that holy shrine To fix our thoughts on things divine, When pictured there, we kneeling see Her, and the Boy-God on her knee, Smiling sweetly on each prayer To heaven, as if to waft it there. Still she smiled; even now she smiles, Though slaughter streams along her aisles: Minotti lifted his aged eye,
And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, Inward and onward the Mussulman came.
The vaults beneath the mosaic stone Contain'd the dead of ages gone; Their names were on the graven floor, But now illegible with gore; The carved crests, and curious hues The varied marble's veins diffuse, Were smear'd, and slippery-stain'd, and
With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: There were dead above, and the dead below Lay cold in many a coffin'd row; You might see them piled in sæble state, By a pale light through a gloomy grate; But War had enter'd their dark caves, And stored along the vaulted graves Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread In masses by the fleshless dead;
Here, throughout the siege, had been The Christians' chiefest magazine; To these a late form'd train now led, Minotti's last and stern resource Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.
The foe came on, and few remain To strive, and those must strive in vain : For lack of further lives, to slake The thirst of vengeance now awake, With barbarous blows they gash the dead, And lop the already lifeless head, And fell the statues from their niche, And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, And from each other's rude hands wrest The silver vessels saints had bless'd. To the high altar on they go; Oh, but it made a glorious show! On its table still behold
The cup of consecrated gold; Massy and deep, a glittering prize, Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: That morn it held the holy wine, Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray.
Still a few drops within it lay; And round the sacred table glow Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, From the purest metal cast; A spoil-the richest, and the last.
So near they came, the nearest stretch'd To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, When old Minotti's hand
Touch'd with the torch the train 'Tis fired!
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, The turban'd victors, the Christian band, All that of living or dead remain, Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, In one wild roar expired!
The shatter'd town the walls thrown down
The waves a moment backward bent---- The hills that shake, although unrent, As if an earthquake pass'd -
The thousand shapeless things all driven In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, By that tremendous blast-
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er On that too long afflicted shore: Up to the sky like rockets go All that mingled there below: Many a tall and goodly man, Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, When he fell to earth again Like a cinder strew'd the plain: Down the ashes shower like rain; Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles With a thousand circling wrinkles; Some fell on the shore, but far away, Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay; Christian or Moslem, which be they? Let their mothers see and say! When in cradled rest they lay, And each nursing mother smiled On the sweet sleep of her child, Little deem'd she such a day Would rend those tender limbs away. Not the matrons that them bore Could discern their offspring more ; That one moment left no trace
More of human form or face Save a scatter'd scalp or bone: And down came blazing rafters, strown Around, and many a falling stone, Deeply dinted in the clay, All blacken'd there and reeking lay. All the living things that heard That deadly earth-shock disappear'd: The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, And howling left the unburied dead; The camels from their keepers broke; The distant steer forsook the yoke- The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, And burst his girth, and tore his rein; The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, Where echo roll'd in thunder still; The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, Bay'd from afar complainingly, With a mix'd and mournful sound, Like crying babe, and beaten hound: With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, The eagle left his rocky nest, And mounted nearer to the sun, The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun; Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, And made him higher soar and shriek- Thus was Corinth lost and won!
the facts on which the story is founded. The
SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as
THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of Brunswick."-I am aware that in modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the continent. The following extract will explain
Ir is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear-obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day,
"Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and Hugo his bastard-son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty; if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of the justice of a parent."-Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. III. p. 470.
And heedless as the dead are they Of aught around, above, beneath; As if all else had pass'd away, They only for each other breathe; Their very sighs are full of joy So deep, that did it not decay, That happy madness would destroy The hearts which feel its fiery sway: Of guilt, or peril, do they deem In that tumultuous tender dream? Who that have felt that passion's power, Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour? Or thought how brief such moments last?
As twilight melts beneath the moon away. But yet they are already past!
But it is not to list to the waterfall That Parisina leaves her hall, And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light That the lady walks in the shadow of night; And if she sits in Este's bower,
Alas! we must awake before
We know such vision comes no more.
With many a lingering look they leave The spot of guilty gladness past; And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower-As if that parting were the last. She listens but not for the nightingale The frequent sigh-the long embrace— Though her ear expects as soft a tale. There glides a step through the foliage
And her cheek grows pale-and her heart beats quick, There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves,
A moment more-and they shall meet-'Tis past her lover's at her feet.
And what unto them is the world beside, With all its change of time and tide? Its living things-its earth and sky- Are nothing to their mind and eye.
The lip that there would cling for ever, While gleams on Parisina's face The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, As if each calmly conscious star Beheld her frailty from afar— The frequent sigh, the long embrace, Yet binds them to their trysting-place. But it must come, and they must part In fearful heaviness of heart, With all the deep and shuddering chill Which follows fast the deeds of ill.
And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, To covet there another's bride;
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