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!’