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.