CANTO II.
I.
‘Another hour is fled;—a few, few more,
‘And life, and all its sweets, are ever o’er;
“’Tis hard in youth’s fair blossom to decay,
‘And, like the dreams of midnight, pass away:
‘To go—we scarce know where,—and, as the wind,
‘To leave, alas! no ling’ring trace behind!
‘This present sun upon my glory glow’d!—
‘The next shall light me to my last abode!
‘Farewell, ye scenes of youth, whose brightning hue
‘Gave hopes and joys, so empty to my view!10
‘Farewell, those hopes and joys!—thou bubble, Fame,
‘Farewell! what art thou?—nothing but a name.
‘Yet none, O none of these, once tinted high
‘From this cold breast, can wring a single sigh,
‘And never soul, save one, this heart of care
‘Would loath for ever from its bonds to tear;
‘But ah! that one, when thoughts of her arise,
‘They pour my melting spirit from mine eyes.
‘But this unmans me!—cease, thou ruthless thought,
‘With woman’s softness, woman’s feeling fraught!’20
Thus Ismael sigh’d, as, on his stony bed,
In dungeon mirk, he lean’d his aching head,
And mem’ry pond’ring o’er the former day,
Recall’d dear cherished scenes, far, far away!
II.
Hark, on the ear the roughly-sullen jar
Creaks harshly hoarse, of op’ning bolt and bar;
And Ismael started up, and turn’d his eye
To gaze on black expanse of vacancy;
And thought,—“’Tis morn, the tyrant’s abject train
‘Are come to drag me to a death of pain.30
’Tis well!—I am prepar’d—the fiend shall find
‘That Ismael’s bosom holds no vulgar mind.’
Back on its pond’rous hinge the huge door flew,
And the grim gaoler met the pris’ner’s view.
High Ismael gaz’d in sullen, scornful mood,
On him (so whisper’d thought) the man of blood?
But when he saw the gaoler soft replace
The dungeon door, and then with noiseless pace
Steal where he lay; and, by the lamp he brought,
A glimm’ring glance of steely dagger caught;40
And mark’d him draw his cloke around, and creep
Like some assassin murd’ring infant sleep,
A pang of bootless rage, of shiv’ring chill,
Cross’d his proud soul with agonising thrill:—
‘What, here shall Ismael yield a life so brave,
‘To death so craven, by so base a slave;
‘And not a limb to move?’ The bursting fire
Glar’d in his starting eye; in frantic ire,
With madd’ning rage, he shook, he gnaw’d the chain,
Dash’d, roll’d his form!—but each attempt was vain!
The last soul-piercing pang of rending life,51
Could never match that moment’s harrowing strife!
With finger rais’d to lip, with voice so drown’d,
That list’ning ear could scarcely catch the sound,
“Hush, hush,” the gaoler cried; “be still, and see,
Thy servant comes to set his Sultan free.”
Scarce had he said, when Ismael’s wond’ring eye
Saw at his feet the prostrate gaoler lie.
And heard, with wilder’d joy, the grateful sound
Of clinking fetters clashing on the ground;60
And raptur’d felt each limb of might again,
Free as the air that wantons o’er the main:
‘O say what means all this’—“Hush, hush, my lord,
“The life of both hangs on a single word.
“This is no time for talk!—these garments take,
“Wrap them around you close!—the salem make
“If aught accost you; but, mind, no reply,
“Your part a mute, be silent, or you die!
“But, more for safety, take this sword; ’twill be
“Of use in peril—now then, follow me.”70
All this strange scene had pass’d so swift, to seem
To Ismael like th’ adventures of a dream;
But, when his hand the pond’rous sabre prest,
He felt his soul high heaving in his breast;
And courage whisper’d, ‘If I fall, my fate
Shall, like my life, be gloriously great.’
Meanwhile the gaoler, cautious as before,
Roll’d on its massy hinge, and barr’d the dungeon door;
Then down a mirky passage pacing slow,
They left that scene of horror and of wo.80
III.
The hotly-beaming orb of noon-day’s sky,
Illum’d green Caymyr with his golden eye,
And cast a mellowing splendour, warm and bright,
O’er many a scene of beauty and delight.
Here the soft waters gliding, like the hours,
Through balmy banks of variegated flow’rs;
And here the camp, and here the martial train,
That, like himself, cast lustre on the plain:
And there, o’er yon wide hill, that grove of trees,
That fling their fragrance t’ th’ enamour’d breeze;90
While where they leave an op’ning, give to view
Some tow’r, or temple, proudly frowning through:—
All seem’d as if in Union’s silken bands,
Young Love, and glorious War, had met to join their hands.
But through that num’rous army, rude commotion
Was like the storm that ruffles o’er the ocean;
Though louder, wilder was the mingled sound
Of thousand tongues that echoed o’er the ground;
The whisper’d murder, or the bolder cry
Of stern upbraiding, or of mutiny.100
And whence is this?—Their youthful chief alone
Is gone! but when—or where—to all unknown.
His tent is search’d, that night was pass’d not there,
His couch untouch’d, his absent steed, declare:
Throughout the camp, throughout the martial train,
They seek high Ismael,—but they seek in vain.
In anger stern, the chiefs together came,
Suspicion black’ning o’er their leader’s name.
In speaking silence, each glanc’d round on each,
All loath alike to be the first in speech110
To vent his wrath.—At length, each rolling eye
Is turn’d on one, who stands indignant by:
Bold was that chief, through all that conq’ring band
Not one surpassed the prowess of his hand.
But fierce in temper, “turbulent in tongue,”
He lov’d to lead the factions of the throng:
Abbas, his name. Rage sparkling in his eyes,
He mark’d the chiefs, and thus the warrior cries;—
“Say, is it meet, that here, while squadrons stand
“To fight and conquer at a boy’s command;120
“He, he the cause, the leader of the fray,
“Is gone in secret, fled, perchance, away?
“Say, is it meet, that we, whose rank and fame,
“Would some respect from mightier chieftains claim;
“Should thus be treated with contemptuous scorn;
“By Mahomet, ’tis no longer to be borne!
“Nor shall ye bear it! rouse, and let us own
“This wretch unworthy of so great a throne.”
Thus far he said, when to the listening heav’n
A long, loud shout of “Ismael! Ismael” ’s given.130
All that wide camp re-echoed with the name,
So high in glory, and so dear to fame.
And now towards the chieftain’s ample tent,
The clanging sounds of scouring steed are bent.
And each on each the assembled leaders gaze,
Fix’d to their stations in profound amaze.
IV.
And Ismael enter’d on that busy scene,
With bearing princely, and with brow serene;
Saluting all around with regal grace,
He took his station in the vacant place.140
Straight to the earth, was bent each look of shame;
Straight o’er each cheek, the tingling colour came;
So motionless was ev’ry chieftain there,
That scarce a breathing died upon the car.
High Ismael rose!—in language short and cold,
Began th’ adventures of the night t’ unfold.
The cause of all, alone forbears to tell,
His seeking her his bosom lov’d so well.
Nor had he finished his narration brief,
Ere the fierce rage of Abbas, haughty chief!150
That rage, which scarce had been restrain’d till now,
Burst like the flamings of red Ætna’s brow:—
“Go hence, thou liar! hence, thou smooth-tongued youth!
“To other ears go take thy tale of truth,
“For here ’tis not believ’d! Yet grant it true,
“What mighty aim could Ismael have in view,
“To leave his army on the very night
“Before he meant to lead it to the fight?
“Why should that gaoler too, in spite of danger
“Of his own life, free thee, to him a stranger?160
“And though I grant thy courser’s speed from here,
“In a few hours to Tauris’ walls, might bear,
“Yet, as that steed was captur’d, or was slain
“In combat with Alvante’s troops, again,
“How in so short a time did’st thou return,
“For when thou quitted thence, ’twas near the morn?
“Think’st thou, that Persia’s mightier sons will be
“The dupes of falsehood, and the slaves of thee?
“Perish the thought; this arm shall ne’er permit
“So base a wretch on Iran’s throne to sit.170
“’Tis my resolve!”—“And mine! and mine!” was sent
From ev’ry quarter of the crowded tent:
As up the chieftains rose, the sudden glare
Of hundred sabres glimmer’d in the air.
‘And, traitor, this is mine,’ high Ismael cries,
Death on his brow, and fury in his eyes;
As flash’d his weapon forth, and through the head
Of Abbas, down e’en to the mouth it sped.
He fell:—o’er Ismael’s eye th’ expression came
Of pitying softness, conq’ring wrathful flame:180
He dropt the blade,—he sigh’d,—for he could glow
In soft compassion o’er a fallen foe.
He turn’d away—his eye-ball’s fire renew’d,
As red it roll’d where, half-repentant, stood
The low’ring chiefs amaz’d—the same wild band,
As when they first uprose, in look and stand.
The garb flung back, the haughty lips apart,
The voice just issuing from the swelling heart,
The foot advanc’d in menace, and the sword
High rear’d, to wreak the fury of its lord.190
They seem’d so still, and yet that still spoke more
Than thousand voices mix’d in loud uproar.
V.
And Ismael cast on all his dark’ning eye,
That beam’d with stern and conscious dignity,
And thus he said,—‘It boots not Ismael, here
‘In length of words his slighted fame to clear.
‘But if, to prove mine honour, you are bent,
‘My brave deliverer waits without the tent;
‘Examine him or not, as suits you best,
‘For truth, like gold, is purer from the test.200
‘To use this traitor’s words, who, on the floor
‘Sends out his treason on his ebbing gore,
‘“Why should that gaoler too, in spite of danger
‘“To his own life, free me, to him a stranger?”
“’Tis easy answer’d:—In the hostile strife,
‘Some months ago, this arm had sav’d his life,
‘Albeit a valiant foe, and set him free,
‘Once more to taste the sweets of liberty:
‘Since then Alvante rais’d him to the pow’r,
‘Chief gaoler to the royal dungeon tow’r:210
‘He knew me, and on Gratitude’s fair shrine
‘Repaid the life I gave—by saving mine.
‘Rude Abbas ask’d again, how, with such speed
‘I here return’d, unaided by my steed.
‘I had began t’ explain it—when the force
‘Of his rash fury broke on my discourse.
‘We had not long left Tauris, when the birth
‘Of yonder sun began to wake the earth,
‘And nature open’d all her stores of bliss,
‘On hill and vale, to meet his golden kiss.220
‘When, as we swift strode on, we turn’d our eye
‘On two young horsemen slowly riding by;
‘What should be done?—we wanted steeds—and now
‘Fate in our way these travellers seem’d to throw:
‘We hasten’d to them—mildly proffer’d gold
‘To yield their steeds—they were not to be sold:
‘We seiz’d the reins—we bar’d our blades—and swore
‘That we would buy them with their master’s gore:
‘They heard our threaft’nings, and they mark’d our pow’rs,
‘The caitiffs trembled—and the steeds were ours.230
‘Scarce had we mounted, ere the distant sound
‘Of clanking horse-treads rush’d along the ground.
‘Away we speed—a neighbouring hill we gain—
‘We look behind—we view Alvante’s train
‘In hot pursuance:—like the winged wind,
‘Off, off we scour, and leave them far behind,
‘And noon has view’d us here arrive, t’ assuage
‘The clam’rous treason of suspicious rage.
‘But now, away; ere evening’s shadows fall,
‘Our bands shall revel in Alvante’s hall.240
‘This is the moment of propitious fate;
‘Alvante’s name is held in general hate:
‘At our approach the gates shall open fly,
‘And thou art all our own, O Victory!’
He ceas’d: on every chieftain’s war-worn face,
Of former fury vanish’d every trace;
On each stern brow, swart cheek, and lofty mien,
Nought but the hope of coming fame is seen.
As their dark eyes, with admiration warm,
Glanc’d on their leader’s soul-inspiring form,250
As high it tower’d, a something like divine,
A heav’n-born ray around it seem’d to shine;
His kindling soul flash’d glory from his eyes,
And to his voice, that gleam of enterprise
Had giv’n a tone prophetic; as it roll’d,
He seem’d a being of immortal mould.
And loud they cry, as high is rear’d each sword,
“Long live great Ismael, Persia’s mighty lord.”
Forth from the tent then rush’d the warrior-train,
And here, and there, disperse along the plain;260
Swift sink the tents, the bands in many a throng,
Arm,—form their deep’ning squares,—and sweep along.
VI.
Commotion hovers with her dark wide wings,
O’er Persia’s stately city; there she brings
Her sister, wild Amaze; each dweller’s soul
There, owns those kindred demons’ joint control.
On every form, on every busy mien,
Nought but one mixt expression there was seen;
But that expression told of all the train
Of throbbing passions that usurp the brain.270
There, you might trace young joy, but also there
Spoke something like the reign of fear, of care,
Of wonder, of confusion: sight and speech,
Like freezing streams, seem’d half bound up in each.
As they pour’d from their houses, like the bees
That leave their hives, and throng the fragrant trees,
The only sound that fell upon the ear,
Was (faintly mutter’d) “Ismael is near!”
’Till, as the news gain’d ground, the clamours rise,
And “Ismael! Ismael!” rend the list’ning skies.280
Some fling the high gates open—some loud cry,
“Perish the proud Alvante;” while they fly
To seek the palace, and the court to force,
And send th’ usurper on his long, last course.
The gen’ral shouts, the long and deaf’ning din,
Alvante heard, his stately halls within:
He started up in wonder and alarm;
The flashing sabre found his giant arm.
“Hark! hark! methought I heard that hated name,
“What, is it Ismael?—hark! again—the same.”290
Then his friend Muly rush’d within that room,
Trembling his form, and pale as cygnet’s plume
His vet’ran cheek:—‘Fly, fly, ere yet too late,
‘The clam’rous throng are at the palace gate;
‘Thine head they swear’—(hark, hark, again that roar!)—
‘Shall pay for all the streams of kindred gore
‘Thou’st caus’d to flow; in vain we’ve tried t’assuag
‘Their treasonous tumults, and their guilty rage.
‘They cry that Ismael’s bands are sweeping now,
‘In swift procession, o’er yon mountain’s brow.300
‘O fly, O fly to shield thy regal form,
’Till lull’d the beating dangers of the storm,—
‘Haste to Armenia, that e’er loyal land
‘Will yield my sultan many a mighty band;
‘Haste, haste, O haste!’—“And whither should I fly?
“Here in his courts must king Alvante die;
“King am I now, and Death will lose his sting,
“E’en ’mid his grasp, to think I die a king.”
‘And think’st thou, if thou tarriest here, thy fate
‘Will be in all the royalty of state?310
‘That thou’lt fall nobly? No, a slave thou’lt die,
‘Brought out to grace thy victor’s victory;
‘To feast his minions with thy dying wo;
‘(Hark, hark, the rebels burst the gates below!)
‘This door will lead us hence,—away, away,
‘Lost is your life, your kingdom, if you stay!
‘But hold!—I have it!—cast these garments on,
‘Muffle your face, and mingle with the throng;
‘Then unperceiv’d escape, and haste to gain
‘The troops of conquest in Armenia’s plain;320
‘But now away.’ Though more than mortal brave,
A natural wish his life, his realms to save,
Alvante felt. If tarrying here, he knew
That he must die, and die ignobly too.
If for awhile he went, Armenia might,
By fortune aided, place him in his right.
He instinctively clasp’d the muffling vest
In many a fold around his face and breast,
And both are now disguis’d! one moment more,
And they have past yon gold-enamell’d door,330
And mingled with the throng—and to the sky,
Now, they have join’d the gen’ral clam’rous cry.
A leader mark’d their garb—their mien—their tone—
Again he turn’d to view them—they are gone.
VII.
By Tauris’ walls, along the delving plain,
Swift drive young Ismael’s far-extending train;
On yonder hill, has paus’d the setting sun,
To mark their glories ere his race be run,
And loves his splendour o’er their arms to cast,
Type of their fame, ere yet that splendour’s past;340
Forth from the walls, like billows on the deep,
In one vast mass the joyous numbers sweep.
“Welcome, great Chief! welcome, the golden hour,
“That frees us from the tyger-tyrant’s pow’r;
“Welcome, O welcome; see our gates are riv’n,
“T’ admit, to welcome thee, O son of heav’n.
“O let us shout, O let us gladly sing,
“Long life to Ismael, glory to our King!”
Upon a milk-white steed, high Ismael rode,
That pranc’d exulting in his mighty load;350
And that great warrior, cast in Beauty’s mould,
Blaz’d like a god-head in his arms of gold.
From hill, from vale, around, and from afar,
Roll’d the loud music of tremendous war;
The awful gong, the trumpet’s brazen tone,
And the rough thunder of the tymbalon,
The rude, yet rousing clashings of the zel,
The hollow blast of Süankos’ shell.
While, like some meteor rising here and there,
The wide, bright banners wanton’d in the air.360
Thus, while their welcome path, on every side,
All Tauris hails, full royally they ride;
And, ’mid the clamours of th’ admiring crowd,
That hail th’ auspicious march; yon palace proud
(With not a drop of blood upon his sword,)
Receives another, and a mightier lord.
VIII.
Mark’st thou yon banners waving in the gale?
Mark’st thou yon troops, that over hill and vale
Their martial numbers pour; and, spreading far,
Now thirst impatient for the coming war?370
And mark’st thou, fiercely, there, against them bent,
Yon wide, and long, and glorious armament?
And mark’st thou too that chief, whose brows appear
Like sable clouds, that in night’s dark’ning sphere
Hang o’er two blazing stars; whose awful form,
Is as some tow’r amid the whelming storm;
Whose all-defying mien, whose stern, wild air,
Luxuriant Fancy might perhaps compare
To angel Eblis, when rebellious driv’n,
Destruction breathing, from the courts of heav’n?380
Who is that warrior?—who!—and can that mien
Be e’er forgotten, when once known, once seen?
It is Alvante!—Bulwark of the fight,
Whose sword is vengeance, and whose arm is might.
Who’d safe arrived, with his faithful friend,
His care-beguiler, to Armenia’s land;
And with Moratcham, whom he had subdued,
His rebel brother, he his league renew’d.
’Twere strange to mark their meeting, how they came,
Souls fierce as sparkles in the rising flame.390
How loth to speak the first: each eye-ball’s swell
Beam’d on the earth, where scarce it e’er had fell
Before; how sullen, like a wayward child,
They sooth’d, they soften’d, and they reconcil’d.
But well I ween, that spirits proud and strong
Like theirs, can never intermingle long.
And even now they half-reluctant go,
Hand link’d in hand, against a mutual foe,
To wage a mutual war.—They part awhile,
Moratcham hast’ning to Assyria’s soil,400
Fresh troops to raise; while to Armenia’s skies,
In warlike pride, Alvante’s banners rise,
And numbers daily to those banners came,
Or led by plunder, or arous’d by fame.
Meantime young Ismael hears the dread alarms,
Of his great enemy’s increasing arms.
Again his standard on the breezes burst;
Again his bands, in ancient victories nurst,
He wakes; and, as the Simoom’s fiery breath,
That wafts the kiss of pestilential death;410
Fate-bearing Ismael, glorying in his might,
Destruction’s sabre bar’d, and rush to meet the fight.
From wide Assyria, young Moratcham led
A martial squadron to his brother’s aid;
But Ismael, with his courage, mingling still
The sage’s prudence and the leader’s skill,
Prevents their joining; and now hastes to dare
Th’ enraged Alvante to the scenes of war:
And that bold chief determines, with this band,
Cull’d from the bravest of Armenia’s land,420
Upon the fight to set his fortunes all,
A king to conquer, or a king to fall.
But lo, the thick’ning masses move, and slow
Advance in order, ’gainst th’ advancing foe.
And hark, that crash!—The mingling hosts engage,
Blood streams, and armour clangs, and all is war and rage;
Man combats man, on hero hero dies,
Glares sword on sword, and ring the battle cries.
High in the air the hov’ring vultures soar,
And scream impatient for their feast of gore.430
On the shock’d earth the slaughter’d numbers roll,
And glory burns in every warrior’s soul;
The battle-fields, like cauldrons, fiercely boil,
And Azrail claps his iron wings and claims the soil.
Tremendous is that scene of carnage fell,
No mortal tongue its horrors e’er can tell!
As, when on some thick forest’s lofty head,
From high, some fierce autumnal blast is sped,
Drives through the leafy throng its rabid way,
And shakes their thousand branches with dismay;440
The leaves, the boughs, the trees themselves around
Are swept away, and scatter’d on the ground:
So stern Alvante, with resistless might,
Cleaves his red pathway through the groves of fight.
War-loving Azrail, Death’s tremendous lord,
Frowns on his crest, and hovers on his sword.
Bath’d in red streams of hostile gore, where’er
Tow’rs his proud form, confusion wild is there.
His bands scarce think him mortal, and, inspir’d
By his example, think that God has fir’d450
Their swelling breasts; and, like the billowy deep,
Fierce (led by him) against the foe they sweep.
They thin the hostile ranks, who, in dismay,
In more than fear, half-routed, yield them way.
Then, in that moment, when Alvante’s eye
Saw the bright beams of coming victory;
When, in idea, his hand has grasp’d again
With raptur’d joy, the throne of Iran: then,
Then, in that moment of eventful strife,
Worth a whole age of common, passive life;460
Before Alvante’s way, at headlong speed,
A youthful chief has spurr’d his snowy steed.
Each combatant has rous’d him from the fight,
Awhile to gaze on that high form of might.
But Iran’s genius, as aloft she flew,
Hung back, and trembled at the dangerous view:
For, in that god-like youth, she marks too well
Her last, lone hope, her favour’d Ismael.
‘Come on,’ he cries, ‘proud tyrant; come, and know
‘That thou wilt combat with no vulgar foe;470
‘Use thy whole art and strength; for I am he,
‘Worthy alone, to fight—to conquer thee.
‘I come arm’d in my bleeding country’s might!
“’Tis Ismael, chief, who wooes thee to the fight!’
Alvante answered not, but in the flame
That flash’d his brow, and glar’d his eye-balls, came
A dreadful something, eager to destroy,
An horrid energy, a demon joy.
So high he rear’d his blade, it seem’d that fate
Upon one blow from that dread arm would wait.480
But Ismael’s courser, practis’d in the war,
Swerv’d, and the sabre cut the yielding air.
Not so did Ismael’s blade, though broke its force,
Through the steel corselet it has ta’en its course,
And gash’d full sore:—and now the strokes so fast
From either arm, to either form are past,
That scarce the eye-ball’s searching glance can know,
Where giv’n, where parried, or receiv’d the blow;
Save by the sparks that from their armour flash’d,
Save by the gore, that from the corselets gash’d,490
Pour’d in long streams; the drops upon the plain
Fell from their brows, like pattering of rain:
And every stroke was aim’d full strong and true,
For each great chieftain ’mid the combat knew,
That all the war was on a single hand,
That Iran’s empire hung upon his brand.
A foe so dread, Alvante never yet
In conflict’s thickest walks of heroes met;
And ne’er had Ismael, mid th’ embattled throng,
Known eye so keen, and arm so swift and strong.500
Each stroke, that like the flash of lightning past,
Seem’d fiercer, heavier, mightier than the last;
Till Ismael felt his youthful arm at length,
Weaken its blows, and slacken in its strength;
While stern Alvante, like some massy tow’r,
Still seem’d to combat with the prime of pow’r:
But Ismael hop’d one blow, that should contain
All his remaining strength, should smite him on the plain.
He nerv’d his arm, he rear’d it high in air,
Then downwards drove the pondrous scymitar;510
Alvante’s sword receiv’d that dreadful stroke,—
And Ismael’s treach’rous blade snapp’d short, and broke.
Over Alvante’s face appear’d to play
A wild ecstatic joy, a dreadful ray;
And o’er his eye’s dark field of fierceness flew
A something, O! too horrible to view!
“Now, now thine hour is come,” he inly said,
And high in air, he rear’d his shining blade.
Then Persia’s Genius, as she soar’d on high,
Trembled with fear, at Ismael’s death so nigh.520
Among the darts, that cleave the airy tides,
She singles one, and to Alvante guides:
Then in that moment, through his bending head,
When thund’ring down his massy blade, it sped.
Th’ exulting speech has fainted from his tongue,
From his numb’d hand down dropt the sword and rung
Useless on earth; the swarthy colour flies,
The field recedes upon his glazing eyes,
And Azrail’s cold tremendous shades around him rise.
He fell! still Ismael held his stifled breath,530
Still waiting for the dire approach of death;
And, though he saw him fall, yet still he deem’d
’Twas not reality, but that he dream’d.
At length he thought the coming stroke of fate,
From fierce Alvante, linger’d long and late:
He lifts his eyes—he sees him not—again,
Surpris’d, he drops them on the purple plain,
And there he views him!—Oh! how chang’d his state!
That arm, so dread—how cold, inanimate!
Then, then he felt it all! then, then it came540
Swiftly upon him, like the glance of flame:
He bent his body o’er his steed, his hand
Seiz’d from the earth, his enemy’s red brand;
Then lifts his voice, and dashes mid the crowd,
‘Alla! il Alla!’ shouting, long and loud.
New strength has nerv’d his weaken’d arm; where’er
It rises, death and destiny are there.
His troops have caught his fire, and to the heav’n,
‘Alla! il Alla! and his Ismael!’ ‘s given.
On, on they drive:—in thunder-struck dismay,550
On every side Alvante’s troops give way;
They fly tumultuous, or, around the plain,
By pow’rs resistless, fall in heaps of slain.
X.
The setting sun his parting beams has shed
On many a pile of dying, and of dead;
Emblem of life! like his last dying ray,
Thousands have seen the closing of their day;
Have, when he sunk beneath yon hill, and fir’d
The plains beneath, with mellowing blaze—expired.
There, by yon palm, that waves its arms on high,560
A youthful chief has laid him down to die;
His mother’s last, lone hope, her joy, her pride:
Three other sons, by war’s o’erwhelming tide,
Had long been swept away: and he, now gasping here,
Was left alone, her aged breast to cheer.
And must he also die? in life’s gay morn,
And leave her wretched (like a wreck forlorn):
And she now sits at home; and thinks the while,
That fate, propitious, on his arms will smile;
That glory’s hand will gild his youthful name,570
With laurels gather’d in the field of fame.
How fruitless all her cares—her hopes how vain—
He ne’er will bless her widow’d sight again!
From his cold heart fast ebb the torrents red,
Down sinks his arm, he’s dying!—ah! he’s dead!
And there, by yonder shelt’ring hill, is laid
Expiring Seyd, the once-fam’d Renegade.
From his own country banished; all he lov’d
Were left behind, and hither he had rov’d.
Then he was young, and fate might have in store,580
To cheer the future, many a blessing more:
But, in one fatal hour, of sense bereft,
All, all was withered—for his God he left!
Black were his ringlets then, they now are grey;
Yet ne’er could mem’ry quit that dreadful day;
He rush’d to battle, glory met him there,
For in Seyd’s bosom, courage was despair.
Years roll’d away, and found him still the same,
Deep sunk in guilt, yet conscious of his shame;
And now, alas! that guilt has brought him here,590
Without a friend his dying hour to cheer;
Upon the past he turns his desperate eye,
A long, long scene of guilt and infamy;
Upon the future,—no!—he does not dare
To cast a look on what awaits him there;
And fain he’d lift his thoughts to heav’n, and fain
Would pray once more; to him th’ attempt is vain:
He rears him up, towards his native shore
He rolls his eye;—peace,—he can gaze no more.
XI.
And Ismael dropp’d the blade, and wav’d his hand,600
From the pursuit to stay his conq’ring band.
‘Hold, hold, my friends; no longer drive the blow
‘Against a vanquish’d, and unworthy foe:
‘Hold, and remember mercy’s soft control
‘Should e’er be dearest to a hero’s soul.
‘Cease the pursuit: and haste to search the field,
‘Haste to the wounded, every help to yield;
‘Nor to our bands alone, but also those
‘Whom fate or chance have number’d with our foes:
‘And then, to mighty Alla let us give610
‘The debt of gratitude, that still we live—
‘That conquest’s ours: while coming night shall steep
‘The toils of slaughter in the sweets of sleep.
‘Although to-morrow’s dawning sun must see
‘Us march again to war and victory;
‘Must mark us go to wield the conq’ring brand
‘Against Moratcham’s far-inferior band,
‘To place me on my glorious grandsire’s throne,
‘And then—O Selyma, I’m all thine own!’