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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
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,
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 :
E’en 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.
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-renewed
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
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 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
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 9
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.
Hark to the Allah shout! a band
Of the Mussulmans bravest and best is at hand :
Their leader's nervous arm is bare,
Swifter to smite, and never to spare
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on,
Thus in the fight he is 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, '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 yield a groan in dying ;
Mustering his last feeble blow
'Gainst the nearest leyell’d foe,
Though faint beneath the mutual wound.
Grappling on the gory ground.
Still the old man stood erect.
And Alp's career a moment check'd.
6. Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take,
For thine own, thy daughter's sake.”
“Never, renegado, never !
Though the life of thy gift would last for ever."
“ Francesca !-Oh, my promised bride!
Must she too perish by thy pride ?"
• She is safe !" "Where? where ?" 66 In heaven.
From whence thy traitor soul is driven-
Far from thee, and undefiled."
Grimly then Minotti smiled,
As he saw Alp staggering bow
Before his words, as with a blow.
66 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 dash'd Alp to the ground;
Ere could view the wound
That crash'd through the brain of the infidel,
Round he spun, and down he fell;
A flash like fire withịn 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;
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, adding 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
The chief, and his retreating train,
Join to those within the fane:
There they yet may breathe awhile,
Shelter'd by the massy pile.