His parent’s iron hand did doom | |
More than a human hecatomb. | |
If shades by carnage be appeased, | |
765 | Patroclus’ spirit less was pleased |
Than his, Minotti’s son, who died | |
Where Asia’s bounds and ours divide. | |
Buried he lay, where thousands before | |
For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore; | |
770 | What of them is left, to tell |
Where they lie, and how they fell? |
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves;
But they live in the verse that immortally saves.
XXVI | |
Hark to the Allah shout! a band | |
775 | Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand: |
Their leader’s nervous arm is bare, | |
Swifter to smite, and never to spare – | |
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on; | |
Thus in the fight is he ever known: | |
780 | Others a gaudier garb may show, |
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; | |
Many a hand’s on a richer hilt, | |
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; | |
Many a loftier turban may wear, – | |
785 | Alp is but known by the white arm bare; |
Look through the thick of the fight, ’tis there! | |
There is not a standard on that shore | |
So well advanced the ranks before; | |
There is not a banner in Moslem war | |
790 | Will lure the Delhis half so far; |
It glances like a falling star! | |
Where’er that mighty arm is seen, | |
The bravest be, or late have been; | |
There the craven cries for quarter | |
795 | Vainly to the vengeful Tartar; |
Or the hero, silent lying, | |
Scorns to yield a groan in dying; | |
Mustering his last feeble blow | |
‘Gainst the nearest levell’d foe, | |
800 | Though faint beneath the mutual wound, |
Grappling on the gory ground. | |
XXVII | |
Still the old man stood erect, | |
And Alp’s career a moment check’d. | |
‘Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take, | |
805 | For thine own, thy daughter’s sake.’ |
‘Never, renegado, never! | |
Though the life of thy gift would last for ever.’ | |
‘Francesca! – Oh, my promised bride! | |
Must she too perish by thy pride?’ | |
810 | ‘She is safe.’ – ‘Where? where?’ – ‘In heaven; |
From whence thy traitor soul is driven – | |
Far from thee, and undefiled.’ | |
Grimly then Minotti smiled, | |
As he saw Alp staggering bow | |
815 | Before his words, as with a blow. |
‘Oh God! when died she?’ – ‘Yesternight – | |
Nor weep I for her spirit’s flight: | |
None of my pure race shall be | |
Slaves to Mahomet and thee - | |
820 | Come on!’ – That challenge is in vain – |
Alp’s already with the slain! | |
While Minotti’s words were wreaking | |
More revenge in bitter speaking | |
Than his falchion’s point had found, | |
825 | Had the time allow’d to wound, |
From within the neighbouring porch | |
Of a long defended church, | |
Where the last and desperate few | |
Would the failing fight renew, | |
830 | The sharp shot dash’d Alp to the ground; |
Ere an eye could view the wound | |
That crash’d through the brain of the infidel, | |
Round he spun, and down he fell; | |
A flash like fire within his eyes | |
835 | Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, |
And then eternal darkness sunk | |
Through all the palpitating trunk; | |
Nought of life left, save a quivering | |
Where his limbs were slightly shivering: | |
840 | They turn’d him on his back; his breast |
And brow were stain’d with gore and dust, | |
And through his lips the life-blood oozed, | |
From its deep veins lately loosed; | |
But in his pulse there was no throb, | |
845 | Nor on his lips one dying sob; |
Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath | |
Heralded his way to death: | |
Ere his very thought could pray, | |
Unaneled he pass’d away, | |
850 | Without a hope from mercy’s aid, – |
To the last – a Renegade. | |
XXVIII | |
Fearfully the yell arose | |
Of his followers, and his foes; | |
These in joy, in fury those: | |
855 | Then again in conflict mixing, |
Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, | |
Interchanged the blow and thrust, | |
Hurling warriors in the dust. | |
Street by street, and foot by foot, | |
860 | Still Minotti dares dispute |
The latest portion of the land | |
Left beneath his high command; | |
With him, aiding heart and hand, | |
The remnant of his gallant band. | |
865 | Still the church is tenable, |
Whence issued late the fated ball | |
That half avenged the city’s fall, | |
When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell: | |
Thither bending sternly back, | |
870 | They leave before a bloody track; |
And, with their faces to the foe, | |
Dealing wounds with every blow, | |
The chief, and his retreating train, | |
Join to those within the fane; | |
875 | There they yet may breathe awhile, |
Shelter’d by the massy pile. | |
XXIX | |
Brief breathing-time! the turban’d host, | |
With adding ranks and raging boast, | |
Press onwards with such strength and heat, | |
880 | Their numbers balk their own retreat; |
For narrow the way that led to the spot | |
Where still the Christians yielded not; | |
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try | |
Through the massy column to turn and fly; | |
885 | They perforce must do or die. |
They die; but ere their eyes could close, | |
Avengers o’er their bodies rose; | |
Fresh and furious, fast they fill | |
The ranks unthinn’d, though slaughter’d still; | |
890 | And faint the weary Christians wax |
Before the still renew’d attacks: | |
And now the Othmans gain the gate; | |
Still resists its iron weight, | |
And still, all deadly aim’d and hot, | |
895 | From every crevice comes the shot; |
From every shatter’d window pour | |
The volleys of the sulphurous shower: | |
But the portal wavering grows and weak – | |
The iron yields, the hinges creak — | |
900 | It bends – it falls – and all is o’er; |
Lost Corinth may resist no more! | |
XXX | |
Darkly, sternly, and all alone, | |
Minotti stood o’er the altar stone: | |
Madonna’s face upon him shone, | |
905 | Painted in heavenly hues above, |
With eyes of light and looks of love; | |
And placed upon that holy shrine | |
To fix our thoughts on things divine, | |
When pictured there, we kneeling see | |
910 | Her, and the boy-God on her knee, |
Smiling sweetly on each prayer | |
To heaven, as if to waft it there, | |
Still she smiled; even now she smiles, | |
Though slaughter streams along her aisles: | |
915 | Minotti lifted his aged eye, |
And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, | |
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; | |
And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, | |
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. | |
XXXI | |
920 | The vaults beneath the mosaic stone |
Contain’d the dead of ages gone; | |
Their names were on the graven floor, | |
But now illegible with gore; | |
The carved crests, and curious hues | |
925 | The varied marble’s veins diffuse, |
Were smear’d, and slippery – stain’d, and strown | |
With broken swords, and helms o’erthrown: | |
There were dead above, and the dead below | |
Lay cold in many a cofhn’d row; | |
930 | You might see them piled in sable state, |
By a pale light through a gloomy grate; | |
But War had enter’d their dark caves, | |
And stored along the vaulted graves | |
Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread | |
935 | In masses by the fleshless dead: |
Here, throughout the siege, had been | |
The Christian’s chiefest magazine; | |
To these a late form’d train now led, | |
Minotti’s last and stern resource | |
940 | Against the foe’s o’erwhelming force. |
XXXII | |
The foe came on, and few remain |