Selected Poems (73 page)

His parent’s iron hand did doom

More than a human hecatomb.

If shades by carnage be appeased,

765

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;

770

What of them is left, to tell

Where they lie, and how they fell?

XXVI

Hark to the Allah shout! a band

775

Of 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:

780

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, –

785

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

790

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

795

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,

800

Though faint beneath the mutual wound,

Grappling on the gory ground.

XXVII

Still the old man stood erect,

And Alp’s career a moment check’d.

‘Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take,

805

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?’

810

‘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 bow

815

Before 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 be

Slaves to Mahomet and thee -

820

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,

825

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,

830

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

835

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:

840

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,

845

Nor on his lips one dying sob;

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath

Heralded his way to death:

Ere his very thought could pray,

Unaneled he pass’d away,

850

Without a hope from mercy’s aid, –

To the last – a Renegade.

XXVIII

Fearfully the yell arose

Of his followers, and his foes;

These in joy, in fury those:

855

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,

860

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.

865

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,

870

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;

875

There they yet may breathe awhile,

Shelter’d by the massy pile.

XXIX

Brief breathing-time! the turban’d host,

With adding ranks and raging boast,

Press onwards with such strength and heat,

880

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;

885

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 still;

890

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,

895

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 —

900

It bends – it falls – and all is o’er;

Lost Corinth may resist no more!

XXX

Darkly, sternly, and all alone,

Minotti stood o’er the altar stone:

Madonna’s face upon him shone,

905

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

910

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:

915

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.

XXXI

920

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

925

The varied marble’s veins diffuse,

Were smear’d, and slippery – stain’d, and strown

With broken swords, and helms o’erthrown:

There were dead above, and the dead below

Lay cold in many a cofhn’d row;

930

You might see them piled in sable 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

935

In masses by the fleshless dead:

Here, throughout the siege, had been

The Christian’s chiefest magazine;

To these a late form’d train now led,

Minotti’s last and stern resource

940

Against the foe’s o’erwhelming force.

XXXII

The foe came on, and few remain