The Siege of Corinth

In the year since Jesus died for men,Eighteen hundred years and ten,We were a gallant company,Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea.Oh! but we went merrily!We forded the river, and clomb the high hill,Never our steeds for a day stood still;Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;Whether we couched in our rough capote,On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,Or stretched on the beach, or our saddles spread,As a pillow beneath the resting head,Fresh we woke upon the morrow:All our thoughts and words had scope,We had health, and we had hope,Toil and travel, but no sorrow.We were of all tongues and creeds;--Some were those who counted beads,Some of mosque, and some of church,And some, or I mis-say, of neither;Yet through the wide world might ye search,Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.

But some are dead, and some are gone,And some are scattered and alone,And some are rebels on the hillsThat look along Epirus' valleys,Where Freedom still at moments rallies,And pays in blood Oppression's ills;And some are in a far countree,And some all restlessly at home;But never more, oh! never, weShall meet to revel and to roam.But those hardy days flew cheerily!nzAnd when they now fall drearily,My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main,And bear my spirit back againOver the earth, and through the air,A wild bird and a wanderer.'Tis this that ever wakes my strain,And oft, too oft, implores againThe few who may endure my lay,oaTo follow me so far away.Stranger, wilt thou follow now,And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow?

Many a vanished year and age,obAnd Tempest's breath, and Battle's rage,Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands,A fortress formed to Freedom's hands.ocThe Whirlwind's wrath, the Earthquake's shock,Have left untouched her hoary rock,The keystone of a land, which still,Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill,The landmark to the double tideThat 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 shedSince first Timoleon's brother bled,Or baffled Persia's despot fled,Arise from out the Earth which drankThe stream of Slaughter as it sank,That sanguine Ocean would o'erflowHer isthmus idly spread below:Or could the bones of all the slain,odWho perished there, be piled again,That rival pyramid would riseMore mountain-like, through those clear skiesoeThan yon tower-capp'd Acropolis,Which seems the very clouds to kiss.

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appearsThe gleam of twice ten thousand spears;And downward to the Isthmian plain,From shore to shore of either main,ofThe tent is pitched, the Crescent shinesAlong the Moslem's leaguering lines;And the dusk Spahi's bands advanceBeneath each bearded Pacha's glance;And far and wide as eye can reachogThe turbaned 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 breathWings 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 fares that answer fast and wellThe summons of the Infidel.

But near and nearest to the wallOf those who wish and work its fall,With deeper skill in War's black art,Than Othman's sons, and high of heartAs any Chief that ever stoodTriumphant in the fields of blood;From post to post, and deed to deed,Fast spurring on his reeking steed,Where sallying ranks the trench assail,And make the foremost Moslem quail;Or where the battery, guarded well,Remains as yet impregnable,Alighting cheerly to inspireThe soldier slackening in his fire;The first and freshest of the hostWhich Stamboul's Sultan there can boast,To guide the follower o'er the field,To point the tube, the lance to wield,Or whirl around the bickering blade;--Was Alp, the Adrian renegade!

From Venice--once a race of worthHis gentle Sires--he drew his birth;But late an exile from her shore,ohAgainst his countrymen he boreThe arms they taught to bear; and nowThe turban girt his shaven brow.Through many a change had Corinth passedWith Greece to Venice' rule at last;And here, before her walls, with thoseTo Greece and Venice equal foes,He stood a foe, with all the zealWhich young and fiery converts feel,Within whose heated bosom throngsThe memory of a thousand wrongs.To him had Venice ceased to beHer ancient civic boast--"the Free;"And in the palace of St. MarkUnnamed accusers in the darkWithin the "Lion's mouth" had placedA charge against him uneffaced:He fled in time, and saved his life,To waste his future years in strife,oiThat taught his land how great her lossIn him who triumphed o'er the Cross,'Gainst which he reared the Crescent high,And battled to avenge or die.

Coumourgi--he whose closing sceneAdorned the triumph of Eugene,When on Carlowitz' bloody plain,The last and mightiest of the slain,He sank, regretting not to die,But cursed the Christian's victory--Coumourgi--can his glory cease,That latest conqueror of Greece,Till Christian hands to Greece restoreThe freedom Venice gave of yore?A hundred years have rolled awaySince he refixed the Moslem's sway;And now he led the Mussulman,And gave the guidance of the vanTo Alp, who well repaid the trustBy cities levelled with the dust;And proved, by many a deed of death,How firm his heart in novel faith.

The walls grew weak; and fast and hotAgainst them poured the ceaseless shot,With unabating fury sentFrom battery to battlement;And thunder-like the pealing dinojRose from each heated culverin;And here and there some crackling domeWas fired before the exploding bomb;And as the fabric sank beneathThe shattering shell's volcanic breath,In red and wreathing columns flashedThe flame, as loud the ruin crashed,Or into countless meteors driven,Its earth-stars melted into heaven;okWhose clouds that day grew doubly dun,Impervious to the hidden sun,With volumed smoke that slowly grewolTo one wide sky of sulphurous hue.

But not for vengeance, long delayed,Alone, did Alp, the renegade,The Moslem warriors sternly teachHis skill to pierce the promised breach:Within these walls a Maid was pentHis hope would win, without consentOf that inexorable Sire,Whose heart refused him in its ire,When Alp, beneath his Christian name,Her virgin hand aspired to claim.In happier mood, and earlier time,While unimpeached for traitorous crime,Gayest in Gondola or Hall,He glittered through the Carnival;And tuned the softest serenadeThat e'er on Adria's waters playedAt midnight to Italian maid.om

And many deemed her heart was won;For sought by numbers, given to none,Had young Francesca's hand remainedStill by the Church's bonds unchained:And when the Adriatic boreLanciotto to the Paynim shore,Her wonted smiles were seen to fail,And pensive waxed the maid and pale;More constant at confessional,More rare at masque and festival;Or seen at such, with downcast eyes,Which conquered hearts they ceased to prize:With listless look she seems to gaze:With humbler care her form arrays;Her voice less lively in the song;Her step, though light, less fleet amongThe pairs, on whom the Morning's glanceBreaks, yet unsated with the dance.

Sent by the State to guard the land,(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand,While Sobieski tamed his prideBy Buda's wall and Danube's side,onThe chiefs of Venice wrung awayFrom Patra to Euboea's bay,)Minotti held in Corinth's towersooThe Doge's delegated powers,While yet the pitying eye of PeaceSmiled o'er her long forgotten Greece:And ere that faithless truce was brokeWhich freed her from the unchristian yoke,With him his gentle daughter came;Nor there, since Menelaus' dameForsook her lord and land, to proveWhat woes await on lawless love,Had fairer form adorned the shoreThan she, the matchless stranger, bore.op

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn;And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn,O'er the disjointed mass shall vaultThe foremost of the fierce assault.The bands are ranked--the chosen vanOf 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!oq

'Tis midnight: on the mountains brownThe cold, round moon shines deeply down;Blue roll the waters, blue the skySpreads like an ocean hung on high,Bespangled with those isles of light,orSo wildly, spiritually bright;Who ever gazed upon them shiningAnd turned to earth without repining,Nor wished for wings to flee away,And mix with their eternal ray?The waves on either shore lay thereCalm, clear, and azure as the air;And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,But murmured meekly as the brook.The winds were pillowed on the waves;The banners drooped 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 neighed oft and shrill,And echo answered from the hill,And the wide hum of that wild hostRustled like leaves from coast to coast,As rose the Muezzin's voice in airIn 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.osIt seemed to those within the wallA cry prophetic of their fall:It struck even the besieger's earWith something ominous and drear,An undefined and sudden thrill,Which makes the heart a moment still,Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamedOf that strange sense its silence framed;Such as a sudden passing-bellWakes, though but for a stranger's knell.ot

The tent of Alp was on the shore;The sound was hushed, the prayer was o'er;The watch was set, the night-round made,All mandates issued and obeyed:'Tis but another anxious night,His pains the morrow may requiteWith all Revenge and Love can pay,In guerdon for their long delay.Few hours remain, and he hath needOf rest, to nerve for many a deedOf slaughter; but within his soulThe thoughts like troubled waters roll.ouHe stood alone among the host;Not his the loud fanatic boastTo plant the Crescent o'er the Cross,Or risk a life with little loss,Secure in paradise to beBy 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 renegadeAgainst the country he betrayed;He stood alone amidst his band,Without a trusted heart or hand:They followed him, for he was brave,And great the spoil he got and gave;They crouched to him, for he had skillTo warp and wield the vulgar will:ovBut still his Christian originWith them was little less than sin.They envied even the faithless fameHe earned beneath a Moslem name;Since he, their mightiest chief, had beenIn youth a bitter Nazarene.They did not know how Pride can stoop,When baffled feelings withering droop;They did not know how Hate can burnIn hearts once changed from soft to stern;Nor all the false and fatal zealThe convert of Revenge can feel.He ruled them--man may rule the worst,By ever daring to be first:So lions o'er the jackals sway;The jackal points, he fells the prey,owThen on the vulgar, yelling, press,To gorge the relics of success.

His head grows fevered, and his pulseThe quick successive throbs convulse;In vain from side to side he throwsHis form, in courtship of repose;oxOr if he dozed, a sound, a startAwoke him with a sunken heart.The turban on his hot brow pressed,The mail weighed lead-like on his breast,Though oft and long beneath its weightUpon his eyes had slumber sate,Without or couch or canopy,Except a rougher field and skyoyThan now might yield a warrior's bed,Than now along the heaven was spread.He could not rest, he could not stayWithin his tent to wait for day,ozBut walked him forth along the sand,Where thousand sleepers strewed the strand.What pillowed them? and why should heMore wakeful than the humblest be,Since more their peril, worse their toil?And yet they fearless dream of spoil;While he alone, where thousands passedA night of sleep, perchance their last,In sickly vigil wandered on,And envied all he gazed upon.

He felt his soul become more lightBeneath 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 browOf Delphi's hill, unshaken snow,paHigh and eternal, such as shoneThrough 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 formed 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 lingered on the spot, where longHer prophet spirit spake in song.pbOh! still her step at moments faltersO'er withered fields, and ruined altars,And fain would wake, in souls too broken,By pointing to each glorious token:But vain her voice, till better daysDawn in those yet remembered rays,Which shone upon the Persian flying,And saw the Spartan smile in dying.

Not mindless of these mighty timesWas Alp, despite his flight and crimes;And through this night, as on he wandered,pcAnd o'er the past and present pondered,And thought upon the glorious deadWho there in better cause had bled,He felt how faint and feebly dimpdThe fame that could accrue to him,Who cheered the band, and waved the sword,peA traitor in a turbaned horde;And led them to the lawless siege,Whose best success were sacrilege.Not so had those his fancy numbered,The chiefs whose dust around him slumbered;Their phalanx marshalled on the plain,Whose bulwarks were not then in vain.They fell devoted, but undying;The very gale their names seemed sighing;The waters murmured of their name;The woods were peopled with their fame;The silent pillar, lone and grey,Claimed kindred with their sacred clay;Their spirits wrapped the dusky mountain,Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain;pfThe meanest rill, the mightiest riverRolled mingling with their fame for ever.Despite of every yoke she bears,That land is Glory's still and theirs!pg'Tis still a watch-word to the earth:When man would do a deed of worthHe points to Greece, and turns to tread,So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head:He looks to her, and rushes onWhere life is lost, or Freedom won.ph

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused,And wooed 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,piScarce 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 sandpjBetween it and the greener land.

He wandered on along the beach,Till within the range of a carbine's reachOf the leaguered wall; but they saw him not,Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot?pkDid traitors lurk in the Christians' hold?Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts waxed cold?I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wallplThere flashed no fire, and there hissed no ball,Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown,That flanked the seaward gate of the town;Though he heard the sound, and could almost tellThe sullen words of the sentinel,As his measured step on the stone belowClanked, as he paced it to and fro;And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wallHold 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 stripped the flesh,As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull,As it slipped 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 fastWith those who had fallen for that night's repast.And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled 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 gulf,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,Picked by the birds, on the sands of the bay.

Alp turned 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,pmScorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.pnThere 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 treadpoO'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.pp

There is a temple in ruin stands,Fashioned 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 moreOf the things to come than the things before!pqOut upon Time! who for ever will leaveBut enough of the past for the future to grieveO'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 passed away,Fragments of stone, reared by creatures of clay!pr

He sate him down at a pillar's base,And passed his hand athwart his face;Like one in dreary musing mood,Declining was his attitude;His head was drooping on his breast,Fevered, throbbing, and oppressed;And o'er his brow, so downward bent,Oft his beating fingers went,Hurriedly, as you may seeYour own run over the ivory key,Ere the measured tone is takenBy 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,psSent that soft and tender moan?He lifted his head, and he looked on the sea,But it was unrippled as glass may be;He looked on the long grass--it waved not a blade;How was that gentle sound conveyed?He looked to the banners--each flag lay still,So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill,And he felt not a breath come over his cheek;What did that sudden sound bespeak?He turned to the left--is he sure of sight?There sate a lady, youthful and bright!pt

He started up with more of fearThan if an armed foe were near."God of my fathers! what is here?Who art thou? and wherefore sentSo near a hostile armament?"His trembling hands refused to signThe cross he deemed no more divine:He had resumed it in that hour,puBut Conscience wrung away the power.He gazed, he saw; he knew the faceOf beauty, and the form of grace;It was Francesca by his side,The maid who might have been his bride!pv

The rose was yet upon her cheek,But mellowed with a tenderer streak:Where was the play of her soft lips fled?Gone was the smile that enlivened their red.The Ocean's calm within their view,pwBeside her eye had less of blue;But like that cold wave it stood still,And its glance, though clear, was chill.Around her form a thin robe twining,Nought concealed her bosom shining;Through the parting of her hair,Floating darkly downward there,Her rounded arm showed 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 blessed.I have passed the guards, the gate, the wall;Sought thee in safety through foes and all.'Tis said the lion will turn and fleeFrom a maid in the pride of her purity;And the Power on high, that can shield the goodThus from the tyrant of the wood,Hath extended its mercy to guard me as wellFrom 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 deedIn falling away from thy fathers' creed:But dash that turban to earth, and signThe sign of the cross, and for ever be mine;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 flameThe 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 joined, and our sorrow forgot.There thou yet shall be my bride,When once again I've quelled the prideOf Venice; and her hated raceHave felt the arm they would debaseScourge, with a whip of scorpions, thoseWhom Vice and Envy made my foes."

Upon his hand she laid her own--Light was the touch, but it thrilled to the bone,And shot a chillness to his heart,pxWhich fixed 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 dearStrike 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 it felt like stone,As he looked on the face, and beheld its hue,pySo deeply changed from what he knew:Fair but faint--without the rayOf mind, that made each feature playLike sparkling waves on a sunny day;And her motionless lips lay still as death,And her words came forth without her breath,And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,pzAnd there seemed not a pulse in her veins to dwell.Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fixed,And the glance that it gave was wild and unmixedWith aught of change, as the eyes may seemOf the restless who walk in a troubled dream;Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,Stirred by the breath of the wintry airqaSo seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,qbLifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;As they seem, through the dimness, about to come downFrom 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 givenThus much, then, for the love of Heaven,--Again I say--that turban tearFrom off thy faithless brow, and swearThine 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, albeitA 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 takeThe curse of Him thou didst forsake;And look once more to Heaven, and seeIts 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 sailHath 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 stillThine immortality of ill."

Alp looked to heaven, and saw on highThe sign she spake of in the sky;But his heart was swollen, and turned aside,By deep interminable pride.qcThis first false passion of his breastRolled like a torrent o'er the rest.He sue for mercy! He dismayedBy wild words of a timid maid!He, wronged by Venice, vow to saveHer sons, devoted to the grave!No--though that cloud were thunder's worst,And charged to crush him--let it burst!

He looked upon it earnestly,Without an accent of reply;He watched 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 turned, 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 sunAs if that morn were a jocund one.Lightly and brightly breaks awayThe Morning from her mantle grey,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 plucked from the ground, and the swordFrom 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 fail?He who first downs with the red cross may craveHis heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!"Thus uttered 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 goOn 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 highThe foremost, who rush on his strength but to dieThus against the wall they went,Thus the first were backward bent;Many a bosom, sheathed in brass,Strewed the earth like broken glass,qdShivered by the shot, that toreThe ground whereon they moved no more:Even as they fell, in files they lay,Like the mower's grass at the close of day,qeWhen his work is done on the levelled plain;Such was the fall of the foremost slain.

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash,From the cliffs invading dashHuge fragments, sapped by the ceaseless flow,Till white and thundering down they go,Like the avalanche's snowOn the Alpine vales below;Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,Corinth's sons were downward borneBy the long and oft renewedCharge of the Moslem multitude.In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,Heaped 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 cryFor quarter, or for victory,Mingle there with the volleying thunder,Which makes the distant cities wonderHow the sounding battle goes,If with them, or for their foes;If they must mourn, or may rejoiceIn that annihilating voice,Which pierces the deep hills through and throughWith an echo dread and new:You might have heard it, on that day,O'er Salamis and Megara;(We have heard the hearers say,)qfEven 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 comeFrom within the plundered dome:Hark to the haste of flying feet,That splash in the blood of the slippery street;But here and there, where 'vantage groundAgainst 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 fightLurked 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,Outnumbered his thin hairs of silver grey.From right to left his sabre swept:Many an Othman mother weptSons that were unborn, when dippedHis weapon first in Moslem gore,Ere his years could count a score.Of all he might have been the sireWho 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 straitHis only boy had met his fate,His parent's iron hand did doomMore than a human hecatomb.If shades by carnage be appeased,Patroclus' spirit less was pleasedThan his, Minotti's son, who diedWhere Asia's bounds and ours divide.Buried he lay, where thousands beforeFor thousands of years were inhumed on the shore;What of them is left, to tellWhere 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 bandOf the Mussulman 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 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 shoreSo well advanced the ranks before;There is not a banner in Moslem warWill 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 quarterVainly to the vengeful Tartar;Or the hero, silent lying,Scorns to yield a groan in dying;Mustering his last feeble blow'Gainst the nearest levelled foe,Though faint beneath the mutual wound,Grappling on the gory ground.

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 for ever."qg

"Francesca!--Oh, my promised bride!qhMust she too perish by thy pride!"

"She is safe."--"Where? where?"--"In Heaven;From whence thy traitor soul is driven--Far from thee, and undefiled."Grimly then Minotti smiled,As he saw Alp staggering bowBefore 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 beSlaves to Mahomet and thee--Come on!"--That challenge is in vain--Alp's already with the slain!While Minotti's words were wreakingMore revenge in bitter speakingThan his falchion's point had found,Had the time allowed to wound,From within the neighbouring porchOf a long defended church,Where the last and desperate fewWould the failing fight renew,The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground;Ere an eye could view the woundThat crashed through the brain of the infidel,Round he spun, and down he fell;A flash like fire within his eyesBlazed, as he bent no more to rise,And then eternal darkness sunkThrough all the palpitating trunk;qiNought of life left, save a quiveringWhere his limbs were slightly shivering:They turned him on his back; his breastAnd brow were stained 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 breathqjHeralded his way to death:Ere his very thought could pray,Unaneled he passed away,Without a hope from Mercy's aid,--To the last a Renegade.

Fearfully the yell aroseOf his followers, and his foes;These in joy, in fury those:qkThen again in conflict mixing,qlClashing swords, and spears transfixing,Interchanged the blow and thrust,Hurling warriors in the dust.Street by street, and foot by foot,Still Minotti dares disputeThe latest portion of the landLeft 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 ballThat 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,Sheltered by the massy pile.

Brief breathing-time! the turbaned 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 spotWhere still the Christians yielded not;And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly tryThrough 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 fillThe ranks unthinned, though slaughtered still;And faint the weary Christians waxBefore the still renewed attacks:And now the Othmans gain the gate;Still resists its iron weight,And still, all deadly aimed and hot,From every crevice comes the shot;From every shattered window pourThe 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 shrineTo fix our thoughts on things divine,When pictured there, we kneeling seeHer, and the boy-God on her knee,Smiling sweetly on each prayerTo 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 stoneqmContained the dead of ages gone;Their names were on the graven floor,But now illegible with gore;qnThe carved crests, and curious huesThe varied marble's veins diffuse,Were smeared, and slippery--stained, and strownWith broken swords, and helms o'erthrown:There were dead above, and the dead belowLay cold in many a coffined row;You might see them piled in sable state,By a pale light through a gloomy grate;But War had entered their dark caves,qoAnd stored along the vaulted gravesHer sulphurous treasures, thickly spreadIn masses by the fleshless dead:Here, throughout the siege, had beenThe Christians' chiefest magazine;To these a late formed train now led,Minotti's last and stern resourceAgainst the foe's o'erwhelming force.

The foe came on, and few remainTo strive, and those must strive in vain:For lack of further lives, to slakeThe 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 wrestThe silver vessels Saints had blessed.To the high altar on they go;Oh, but it made a glorious show!On its table still beholdThe cup of consecrated gold;Massy and deep, a glittering prize,Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes:That morn it held the holy wine,qpConverted by Christ to his blood so divine,Which his worshippers drank at the break of day,qqTo shrive their souls ere they joined in the fray.Still a few drops within it lay;And round the sacred table glowTwelve lofty lamps, in splendid row,From the purest metal cast;A spoil--the richest, and the last.

So near they came, the nearest stretchedTo grasp the spoil he almost reachedWhen old Minotti's handTouched with the torch the train--'Tis fired!Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,The turbaned victors, the Christian band,All that of living or dead remain,Hurled on high with the shivered fane,In one wild roar expired!The shattered town--the walls thrown down--The waves a moment backward bent--The hills that shake, although unrent,qrAs if an Earthquake passed--The thousand shapeless things all drivenIn cloud and flame athwart the heaven,By that tremendous blast--Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'erOn that too long afflicted shore:Up to the sky like rockets goAll that mingled there below:Many a tall and goodly man,Scorched and shrivelled to a span,When he fell to earth againLike a cinder strewed the plain:Down the ashes shower like rain;Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinklesWith a thousand circling wrinkles;Some fell on the shore, but, far away,Scattered o'er the isthmus lay;Christian or Moslem, which be they?Let their mothers see and say!qsWhen in cradled rest they lay,And each nursing mother smiledOn the sweet sleep of her child,Little deemed she such a dayWould rend those tender limbs away.Not the matrons that them boreCould discern their offspring more;That one moment left no traceMore of human form or faceSave a scattered scalp or bone:And down came blazing rafters, strownAround, and many a falling stone,qtDeeply dinted in the clay,All blackened there and reeking lay.All the living things that heardThe deadly earth-shock disappeared:The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled,And howling left the unburied dead;quThe 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-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh;The wolves yelled on the caverned hillWhere Echo rolled in thunder still;qvThe jackal's troop, in gathered cry,qwBayed from afar complainingly,With a mixed and mournful sound,qxLike 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 seemed so dun;Their smoke assailed his startled beak,And made him higher soar and shriek--Thus was Corinth lost and won!