"If not, thou art lost; and never shalt see Not earth-that's past but Heaven, or me. "If by the time its vapory sail "Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill." Alp looked to Heaven and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky. But his heart was swollen and turned aside By deep, interminable pride. He sue for mercy! He dismayed By wild words of a timid maid! He, wronged by Venice, vow to save No! though that cloud were thunder's worst, He watched it passing-it is flown! "What Venice made me I must be, He turned, but she is gone! Hath she sunk in the earth, He saw not—he knew not or melted in air? but nothing is there. The night is past, and shines the sun Hark, to the trump and the drum, And the clash, and the shout, "They come ! they come!" "Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, "When the culverin's signal is fired, then on, Leave not in Corinth a living one!" The reply was the shouts of fierce thousands in ire; Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, Charge of the Moslem multitude. But on a spot where vantage ground Hark to the Allah shout! A band Of the Mussulmans, bravest and best, is at hand; Still the old man stood erect, And Alp's career a moment checked: "Yield thee, Minotti! quarter take, For thine own, thy daughter's sake." "Never, renegado, never! Though the life of thy gift would last forever! "Francesca! Oh, my promised bride Must she, too, perish by thy pride?" Then again in conflict mixing, Clashing swords and spears transfixing, But the portal wavering grows and weak- It bends-it falls-and all is o'er; Darkly, sternly, and all alone, And made the sign of the cross, with a sigh And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, The cup of consecrated gold, Massy and deep, a glittering prize, So near they came, the nearest stretched Touched with the torch the train 'Tis fired! Spire, vaults, shrine, spoil, the slain, The turbaned victors, the Christian band, All that of living or dead remain, Hurled on high with the shivered fane ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL. JOHN KEATS. [Holman Hunt has made this poem the subject of a painting; he represents an interior with Isabella in listening attitude, leaning over a pot of Basil.] FAIR Isabella with her two brothers dwelt, Enriched from ancestral merchandise, These brethren having found by many signs And many a jealous conference had they, To make the youngster for his crime atone; So on a pleasant morning as he leant "You seem, Lorenzo, in the quiet of content; "But bestride your steed, to-day we mount, To spur three leagues toward the Apennine; Lorenzo bowed, and to the courtyard passed alone, Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; He heard a laugh, and, looking up, saw her features bright Smile through an in-door lattice, with delight. "Loved Isabel!" said he, "I was in pain Of a poor three hours' absence? But we'll gain Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow; Good-bye! I'll soon be back." "Good-bye," said she, And as he went she chanted merrily. So the two brothers and their doomèd man Rode past fair Florence to where Arno's stream, |