| Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, |
| His chestnut steed with four white feet, |
| Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, |
| Son of the road and bandit chief, |
| Seeking refuge and relief, |
| Up the mountain pathway flew. |
| |
| Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, |
| Never yet could any steed |
| Reach the dust-cloud in his course. |
| More than maiden, more than wife, |
| More than gold and next to life |
| Roushan the Robber loved his horse. |
| |
| In the land that lies beyond |
| Erzeroum and Trebizond, |
| Garden-girt his fortress stood; |
| Plundered khan, or caravan |
| Journeying north from Koordistan, |
| Gave him wealth and wine and food. |
| |
| Seven hundred and fourscore |
| Men at arms his livery wore, |
| Did his bidding night and day, |
| Now, through regions all unknown, |
| He was wandering, lost, alone, |
| Seeking without guide his way. |
| |
| Suddenly the pathway ends, |
| Sheer the precipice descends, |
| Loud the torrent roars unseen; |
| Thirty feet from side to side |
| Yawns the chasm; on air must ride |
| He who crosses this ravine, |
| |
| Following close in his pursuit, |
| At the precipice's foot |
| Reyhan the Arab of Orfah |
| Halted with his hundred men, |
| Shouting upward from the glen, |
| "La Illah illa Allah!" |
| |
| Gently Roushan Beg caressed |
| Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast, |
| Kissed him upon both his eyes; |
| Sang to him in his wild way, |
| As upon the topmost spray |
| Sings a bird before it flies. |
| |
| "O my Kyrat, O my steed, |
| Round and slender as a reed, |
| Carry me this peril through! |
| Satin housings shall be thine, |
| Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, |
| O thou soul of Kurroglou! |
| |
| "Soft thy skin as silken skein, |
| Soft as woman's hair thy mane, |
| Tender are thine eyes and true; |
| All thy hoofs like ivory shine, |
| Polished bright; O life of mine, |
| Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!" |
| |
| Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, |
| Drew together his four white feet, |
| Paused a moment on the verge, |
| Measured with his eye the space, |
| And into the air's embrace |
| Leaped, as leaps the ocean surge. |
| |
| As the ocean surge o'er sand |
| Bears a swimmer safe to land, |
| Kyrat safe his rider bore; |
| Rattling down the deep abyss, |
| Fragments of the precipice |
| Rolled like pebbles on a shore. |
|
| |
| Roushan's tasseled cap of red |
| Trembled not upon his head, |
| Careless sat he and upright; |
| Neither hand nor bridle shook, |
| Nor his head he turned to look, |
| As he galloped out of sight. |
| |
| Flash of harness in the air, |
| Seen a moment like the glare |
| Of a sword drawn from its sheath; |
| Thus the phantom horseman passed, |
| And the shadow that he cast |
| Leaped the cataract underneath. |
| |
| Reyhan the Arab held his breath |
| While this vision of life and death |
| Passed above him. "Allahu!" |
| Cried he. "In all Koordistan |
| Lives there not so brave a man |
| As this Robber Kurroglou!" |
| |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
| Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! |
| Long has it waved on high, |
| And many an eye has danced to see |
| That banner in the sky; |
| Beneath it rung the battle shout, |
| And burst the cannon's roar;— |
| The meteor of the ocean air |
| Shall sweep the clouds no more! |
| |
| Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, |
| Where knelt the vanquished foe, |
| When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, |
| And waves were white below, |
| No more shall feel the victor's tread, |
| Or know the conquered knee;— |
| The harpies of the shore shall pluck |
| The eagle of the sea! |
| |
| Oh, better that her shattered hulk |
| Should sink beneath the wave! |
| Her thunders shook the mighty deep, |
| And there should be her grave; |
| Nail to the mast her holy flag, |
| Set every threadbare sail, |
| And give her to the god of storms, |
| The lightning and the gale! |
| |
| Oliver Wendell Holmes. |
| Tell me not, in mournful numbers, |
| "Life is but an empty dream!" |
| For the soul is dead that slumbers, |
| And things are not what they seem. |
| |
| Life is real! Life is earnest! |
| And the grave is not its goal; |
| "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," |
| Was not spoken of the soul. |
| |
| Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, |
| Is our destined end or way; |
| But to act that each to-morrow |
| Finds us farther than to-day. |
| |
| Art is long, and Time is fleeting, |
| And our hearts, though stout and brave, |
| Still, like muffled drums, are beating |
| Funeral marches to the grave. |
| |
| In the world's broad field of battle, |
| In the bivouac of Life, |
| Be not like dumb, driven cattle! |
| Be a hero in the strife! |
| |
| Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! |
| Let the dead Past bury its dead! |
| Act, act in the living Present! |
| Heart within, and God o'erhead! |
| |
| Lives of great men all remind us |
| We can make our lives sublime, |
| And, departing, leave behind us |
| Footprints on the sands of time; |
| |
| Footprints, that perhaps another, |
| Sailing o'er life's solemn main, |
| A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, |
| Seeing, shall take heart again. |
| |
| Let us, then, be up and doing, |
| With a heart for any fate; |
| Still achieving, still pursuing, |
| Learn to labor and to wait. |
| |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |