THE CIRCASSIAN PRIEST-WARRIOR AND HIS WHITE HORSE.
a true tale of the daghestan.
The Russian camp lay at the foot
Of a bold and lofty hill,
Where many a noble tree had root,
And babbled many a rill;
And the rill's laughter and the shade—
The melody and shade combin'd—
Men of most gentle feelings made,
But of unbending mind.
On that hill's side, concealed by trees,
Slumber'd Circassia's might,
Awaiting till the war-horse neighs
His welcome to the light.
The first gray light broke forth at length,
And with it rose the Invader's strength.
Now, if the Vulture, reasoning bird,
Foretelling blood and scenting strife,
Had not among the hill-clouds stirr'd,
One would have said that human life,
Save that of shepherds tending flocks,
Breathed not among yon silent rocks.
What Spectre, gliding tow'rd the rays
Of rising sun, meets Russian gaze,
And is it fright, amaze, or awe,
Distends each eye and hangs each jaw?
A Horse, as snow on mountain height,
His master clothed all, too, in white,
Moved slowly up the mountain's side,
Arching his neck in conscious pride.
And though the cannon pointed stood,
Charged with its slumb'ring lava flood,
The rider gave no spur nor stroke,
Nor did he touch the rein which lay
Upon the horse's neck—who yoke
Of spur nor rein did e'er obey.
His master's voice he knew—the horse,
And by it checked or strain'd his course.
But even no voice was needed now,
For when he reach'd the mountain's brow,
He halted while his master spread
His arms full wide, threw back his head,
And pour'd to Allah forth a pray'r—
Or seem'd to pray—for Russian ear
Even in that pure atmosphere,
The name of Allah 'lone could hear.
The sound, whose purport is to name
God's name—it is an awful sound,
No matter from what lips it came,
Or in what form 'tis found—
Jehovah! Allah! God alike,
Most Christian heart with terror strike.
For ignorant as may be man,
Or with perverted learning stored,
There is, within the soul's wide span,
A deep unutterable word.
A music, and a hymn,
Which any voice of love that breaks
From pious spirit gently wakes,
Like slumb'ring Cherubim.
And "Allah, Allah, Allah!" rose
More thrilling still for Russian foes
By Russian eyes unseen!
Behind a thick wood's screen,
Circassia's dreadful horsemen were
Bowed to the earth, and drinking there
Enthusiasm grand from pray'r,
Ready to spring as soldier fir'd,
When soldier is a Priest inspir'd.
Ay, o'er that host the sacred name
Of Allah rolled, a scorching flame,
That thrilled into the heart's deep core,
And swelled it like a heaving ocean
Visited by Tempest's roar.
Invader! such sublime emotion
Bodes thee no good—so do not mock
The sacred sound which fills each rock.
"Yon Priest must fall, and by his blood
Damp the affrighted army's zeal,
Who dream his body's proof and good
'Gainst flying ball or flashing steel."
A gun was pointed—match applied—
The ball leaped forth; the smoke spread wide.
And cleared away as the echo died,
And "Allah! Allah! Allah!" rose
From lips that never quiver'd:
Nor changed the White Priest's grand repose,
The White Horse never shiver'd.
The cannoneer, now trembling, blushed,
For he rarely missed his aim,
While his commander forward rushed,
With words of bitter blame.
"There is no mark to guide the eye,"
Faltered the chidden man;
"Yon thing of white is as the sky—
No difference can I scan!"
"Let charge the gun with mitraille show'r,
And Allah will be heard no more."
And the gun was charged, and fixed, and fired;
Full fifty bullets flew.
The smoke hung long, the men admired
How the cannon burst not through.
And the startled echoes thundered,
And more again all wondered—
As died away the echoes' roar—
The name of Allah rose once more.
And "Allah! Allah! Allah!" rose,
While horse and rider look'd repose,
As statues on the mountain raised,
Round whom the mitraille idly blazed,
And rent and tore the earth around;
But nothing shook except the ground,
Still the untroubled lip ne'er quivered,
Still that white altar-horse ne'er shivered.
"Wait his return," the captain cried;
"The mountain's side a mark supplies,
And range in line some twenty guns:
Fire one by one, as back he runs;
With mitraille loaded be each gun—
For him who kills a grade is won!"
But back the White Horse ran not—no!
His pace was gentle, grand, and slow;
His rider on the holy skies,
In meditation fix'd his eyes.
The enemy, with murderous plan,
Knew not which to most admire,
The grand White Steed, the grander man,
When, lo! the signal—"Fire!"
"Unscath'd! unscath'd! now mark the race!"
The laughing soldiers cried:
The White Horse quickens not his pace,
The Priest spurs not his side.
"Ha! mark his figure on the rock!"
A second gun is ringing,
The rock itself is springing,
As from a mine's low shock,
Its splinters flying in the air,
And round the Priest and steed is there
Of balls and stones an atmosphere.
What not one stain upon his side!
The whited robe remains undyed—
No bloody rain upon the path—
Surprise subdues the soldier's wrath.
"Give him a chance for life, one chance;
(Now, hear the chance the captain gave)
Let every gun be fired at once—
At random, too—and he, the brave,
If he escape, will have to tell
A prodigy—a miracle—
Or meet the bloodiest grave
That ever closed o'er human corse,
O'er rider brave, or gallant horse."
And away, and away, like thunder weather,
Full twenty cannon blaze together;
Forth the volcano vomits wide.
The men who fired them spring aside,
As back the cannons wheeled.
Then came a solemn pause;
One would have thought the mountain reeled,
As a crater opes its jaws.
But the smoke and sulphur clearing,
Down the mountain's side, unfearing,
Phantom-like glided horse and man,
As though they had no danger ran.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" the soldiers cheer,
And clap their hands in wild delight.
Circassia's Priest, who scorn'd to fear,
Bears the applause of Muscovite.
But, soldiers, load your guns once more;
Load them if ye have time,
For ears did hear your cannons roar,
To whom it is as sweet bells chime,
Inviting to a battle feast.
Dark eyes did see the mitraille driven,
With murderous intent,
'Gainst the High Priest, to whom was given
Protection by offended Heaven,
From you on murder bent,
Haste, sacrilegious Russian, haste,
For behold, their forest-screen they form,
With the ominous sounds of a gathering storm.
Promptly—swiftly—fatally burst,
That storm by Patriot-piety nursed;
Down it swept the mountain's side;
Fast o'er the plain it pour'd,
An avalanche—a deluge wide,
O'er the invader roared.
A White Horse, like a foaming wave,
Dashed forward 'mong the foremost brave,
And swift as is the silver light,
He arrowy clear'd his way,
And cut the mass as clouds a ray.
Or meteor piercing night.
Aimed at him now was many a lance,
No spear could stop his fiery prance,
Oft would he seize it with his mouth,
With snort and fierce tempestuous froth,
While swift the rider would cut down
The lanceman rash, and then dash on
Among advancing hosts, or flying,
Marking his path with foemen dying.
Now, the morning after, when
The gray light kiss'd the mountain,
And down it, like a fountain,
Freshly, clearly ran—oh, then
The Priest and White Horse rose,
So white they scarce threw shade,
But now no sacrilegious blows
At man nor horse are made.
The eyes profane that yester glared,
Hung'ring for that sacred life,
Were quench'd in yester's fatal strife,
And void of meaning stared.
No lip could mock—no Russian ear
Thanksgiving unto Allah hear,
"To Allah, the deliverer!"
The mountain look'd unchang'd, the plain is red;
Peaceful be the fallen invaders' bed.
Paris.J.F.C.
On Atheism.—"I had rather," says Sir Francis Bacon, "believe all the fables in the Legend, the Talmud, and the Koran, than that this universal frame is without a mind. God never wrought miracles to convince Atheists, because His ordinary works are sufficient to convince them. It is true, that a little philosophy inclineth men's minds to Atheism; but depth in philosophy bringeth them back to religion; for while the mind of man looketh upon second causes scattered, it may sometimes rest on them, and go no further; but when it beholdeth the chain of them confederate and linked together, it must needs fly to Providence and Deity."