Selected Poems (69 page)

Since he refix’d the Moslem’s sway,

And now he led the Mussulman,

And gave the guidance of the van

110

To Alp, who well repaid the trust

By cities levell’d with the dust;

And proved, by many a deed of death,

How firm his heart in novel faith.

VI

The walls grew weak; and fast and hot

115

Against them pour’d the ceaseless shot,

With unabating fury sent

From battery to battlement;

And thunder-like the pealing din

Rose from each heated culverin;

120

And here and there some crackling dome

Was fired before the exploding bomb:

And as the fabric sank beneath

The shattering shell’s volcanic breath,

In red and wreathing columns flash’d

125

The flame, as loud the ruin crash’d,

Or into countless meteors driven,

Its earth-stars melted into heaven;

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun,

Impervious to the hidden sun,

130

With volumed smoke that slowly grew

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue.

VII

But not for vengeance, long delay’d,

Alone, did Alp, the renegade,

The Moslem warriors sternly teach

135

His skill to pierce the promised breach:

Within these walls a maid was pent

His hope would win without consent

Of that inexorable sire,

Whose heart refused him in its ire,

140

When Alp, beneath his Christian name,

Her virgin hand aspired to claim.

In happier mood, and earlier time,

While unimpeach’d for traitorous crime,

Gayest in gondola or hall,

145

He glitter’d through the Carnival;

And tuned the softest serenade

That e’er on Adria’s waters play’d

At midnight to Italian maid.

VIII

And many deem’d her heart was won;

150

For sought by numbers, given to none,

Had young Francesca’s hand remain’d

Still by the church’s bonds unchain’d:

And when the Adriatic bore

Lanciotto to the Paynim shore,

155

Her wonted smiles were seen to fail,

And pensive wax’d the maid and pale;

More constant at confessional,

More rare at masque and festival;

Or seen at such, with downcast eyes,

160

Which conquer’d 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 among

165

The pairs, on whom the Morning’s glance

Breaks, yet unsated with the dance.

IX

Sent by the state to guard the land,

(Which, wrested from the Moslem’s hand,

While Sobieski tamed his pride

170

By Buda’s wall and Danube’s side,

The chiefs of Venice wrung away

From Patra to Eubœa’s bay,)

Minotti held in Corinth’s towers

The Doge’s delegated powers,

175

While yet the pitying eye of Peace

Smiled o’er her long forgotten Greece:

And ere that faithless truce was broke

Which freed her from the unchristian yoke,

With him his gentle daughter came;

180

Nor there, since Menelaus’ dame

Forsook her lord and land, to prove

What woes await on lawless love,

Had fairer form adorn’d the shore

Than she, the matchless stranger, bore.

X

185

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn;

And, with to-morrow’s earliest dawn,

O’er the disjointed mass shall vault

The foremost of the fierce assault.

The bands are rank’d; the chosen van

190

Of 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,

195

O’er which the following brave may rise,

Their stepping-stone – the last who dies!

XI

‘Tis midnight: on the mountains brown

The cold, round moon shines deeply down;

Blue roll the waters, blue the sky

200

Spreads like an ocean hung on high,

Bespangled with those isles of light,

So wildly, spiritually bright;

Who ever gazed upon them shining

And turn’d to earth without repining,

205

Nor wish’d for wings to flee away,

And mix with their eternal ray?

The waves on either shore lay there

Calm, clear, and azure as the air;

And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,

210

But murmur’d meekly as the brook.

The winds were pillow’d on the waves;

The banners droop’d along their staves,

And, as they fell around them furling,

Above them shone the crescent curling;

215

And that deep silence was unbroke,

Save where the watch his signal spoke,

Save where the steed neigh’d oft and shrill,

And echo answer’d from the hill,

And the wide hum of that wild host

220

Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,

As rose the Muezzin’s voice in air

In midnight call to wonted prayer;

It rose, that chanted mournful strain,

Like some lone spirit’s o’er the plain:

225

’Twas musical, but sadly sweet,

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,

And take a long unmeasured tone,

To mortal minstrelsy unknown.

It seem’d to those within the wall

230

A cry prophetic of their fall:

It struck even the besieger’s ear

With something ominous and drear,

An undefined and sudden thrill,

Which makes the heart a moment still,

235 Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed

Of that strange sense its silence framed;

Such as a sudden passing-bell

Wakes, though but for a stranger’s knell.

XII

The tent of Alp was on the shore;

240

The sound was hush’d, the prayer was o’er;

The watch was set, the night-round made,

All mandates issued and obey’d:

’Tis but another anxious night,

His pains the morrow may requite

245

With all revenge and love can pay,

In guerdon for their long delay.

Few hours remain, and he hath need

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed

Of slaughter; but within his soul

250

The thoughts like troubled waters roll.

He stood alone among the host;

Not his the loud fanatic boast

To plant the crescent o’er the cross,

Or risk a life with little loss,

255

Secure in paradise to be

By Houris loved immortally:

Nor his, what burning patriots feel,

The stern exaltedness of zeal,

Profuse of blood, untired in toil,

260

When battling on the parent soil.

He stood alone – a renegade

Against the country he betray’d;

He stood alone amidst his band,

Without a trusted heart or hand:

265

They follow’d him, for he was brave,

And great the spoil he got and gave;

They crouch’d to him, for he had skill

To warp and wield the vulgar will:

But still his Christian origin

270

With them was little less than sin.

They envied even the faithless fame

He earn’d beneath a Moslem name;

Since he, their mightiest chief, had been

In youth a bitter Nazarene.

275

They did not know how pride can stoop,