'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm,

Such as himself might fear, and foes would form,

And he must answer for the absent head Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead.

VIII

Within that land was many a malcontent, Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; That soil full many a wringing despot saw, Who work'd his wantonness in form of law.

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Long war without and frequent broil within Had made a path for blood and giant sin, That waited but a signal to begin

New havoc, such as civil discord blends, Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends;

Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. Thus Lara had inherited his lands,

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands; 169 But that long absence from his native clime Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, And now, diverted by his milder sway, All dread by slow degrees had worn away. The menials felt their usual awe alone, But more for him than them that fear was grown;

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, And each long restless night and silent mood

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude. And though his lonely habits threw of late Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his

thence.

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That slavery nothing which was still a

name.

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought.

His summons found the destined criminal Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, Defying earth and confident of heaven. That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves

Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves! Such is their cry

some watchword for

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the fight Must vindicate the wrong and warp the right;

Religion, freedom, vengeance, what you will

A word 's enough to raise mankind to kill; Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread,

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed!

Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst. Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun

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Enquiry into deeds at distance done;
By mingling with his own the cause of all,
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall.
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept,
The storm that once had spent itself and
slept,

Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge

His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, Burst forth, and made him all he once had been,

And is again; he only changed the scene. Light care had he for life, and less for fame,

But not less fitted for the desperate game: He deem'd himself mark'd out for others'

hate,

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And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate.

What cared he for the freedom of the crowd?

He raised the humble but to bend the proud.

He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair,
But man and destiny beset him there:
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay;
And they must kill, they cannot snare the
prey.

Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene;
But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood
A leader not unequal to the feud;

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In voice, mien, gesture, savage nature spoke,

And from his eye the gladiator broke.

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung,

The first success to Lara's numbers clung:
But that vain victory hath ruined all;
They form no longer to their leader's call:
In blind confusion on the foe they press,
And think to snatch is to secure success.
The lust of booty and the thirst of hate
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate:
In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 290
To check the headlong fury of that crew;
In vain their stubborn ardour he would
tame,

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame;

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, And shown their rashness to that erring brood.

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, The long privation of the hoped supply, The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's

However link'd to baffle such design.

The charge be ours! to wait for their

assault

Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt.'

Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, And shook Why sudden droops that plumèd crest?

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The shaft is sped, the arrow 's in his breast!

That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride.

The word of triumph fainted from his tongue;

That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung!

But yet the sword instinctively retains, Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins;

These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow, And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 390 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage. Meantime his followers charge, and charge again;

Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain!