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But never did clasp of one so dear Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,

As those thin fingers, long and white,
Froze through his blood by their touch that

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, So deeply changed from what he knew, Fair but faint, without the ray

Of mind, that made each feature play Like sparkling waves on a sunny day. And her motionless lips lay still as death, And her words came forth without her breath, And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd,


There is a light cloud by the moon-
full soon
'Tis passing, and will
If, by the time its vapoury sail
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,
Thy heart within thee is not changed,
Then God and man are both avenged;
Dark will thy doom be, darker still
Thine immortality of ill.'

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless who walk in a troubled
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily


Stirr❜d by the breath of the wintry air,
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;
As they seem, through the dimness, about
to come down

From the shadowy wall where their images

Fearfully flitting to and fro,
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high
The sign she spake of in the sky;
But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside
By deep interminable pride:
This first false passion of his breast
Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest.
He sue for mercy! He dismay'd
By wild words of a timid maid!
He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save
Her sons, devoted to the grave!
No — though that cloud were thunder's



And charged to crush him

'If not for love of me be given
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,
that turban tear
Again I say,
From off thy faithless brow, and swear
Thine injured country's sons to spare,
Or thou art lost; and never shalt see
but heaven or me.
Not earth, that 's past-
If this thou dost accord, albeit
A heavy doom 't is thine to meet,
That doom shall half absolve thy sin,
And mercy's gate may receive thee within.
But pause one moment more, and take
The curse of Him thou didst forsake;
And look once more to heaven, and see
Its love for ever shut from thee.

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He look'd upon it earnestly,
Without an accent of reply;
He watch'd it passing; it is flown.
Full on his eye the clear moon shone,
And thus he spake: Whate'er my fate,
The reed in storms may bow and quiver,
I am no changeling 't is too late;
Then rise again; the tree must shiver.
What Venice made me, I must be,
Her foe in all, save love to thee.
But thou art safe; oh, fly with me!'
He turn'd, but she is gone!
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air?
but nothing
Nothing is there but the column stone.
He saw not-
is there.

he knew not


let it burst!


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The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword

From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.


Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman,
Strike your tents, and throng to the van;
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain,
That the fugitive may flee in vain
When he breaks from the town, and none

Aged or young, in the Christian shape;
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass,
Bloodstain the breach through which they

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;

Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; White is the foam of their champ on the bit:


The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, And crush the wall they have crumbled before.

Forms in his phalanx each Janizar;

Alp at their head; his right arm is bare,
So is the blade of his scimitar;

The khan and the pachas are all at their


The vizier himself at the head of the host.
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on;
Leave not in Corinth a living one-
A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her


God and the Prophet - Alla Hu! Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale; And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail?

He who first downs with the red cross may


His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!'

Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier;


The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire: Silence hark to the signal fire!

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Heap'd by the host of the infidel,
Hand to hand, and foot to foot.
Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter, or for victory,

On the Alpine vales below;

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,
Corinth's sons were downward borne
By the long and oft renew'd
Charge of the Moslem multitude.

In firmness they stood, and in masses they

You might have heard it, on that day,
O'er Salamis and Megara



Mingle there with the volleying thunder,
Which makes the distant cities wonder
How the sounding battle goes,
If with them or for their foes;
If they must mourn, or may rejoice
In that annihilating voice,
Which pierces the deep hills through and



With an echo dread and new:

(We have heard the hearers say), Even unto Piræus' bay.



From the point of encountering blades to the hilt,

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt;

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What of them is left, to tell
Where they lie, and how they fell?


Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver grey.
From right to left his sabre swept:
Many an Othman mother wept
Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd
His weapon first in Moslem gore,
Ere his years could count a score.
Of all he might have been the sire
Who fell that day beneath his ire:
For, sonless left long years ago,
His wrath made many a childless foe;
And since the day, when in the strait
His only boy had met his fate,
His parent's iron hand did doom
More than a human hecatomb.
If shades by carnage be appeased,
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;



Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves;

But they live in the verse that immortally



Hark to the Allah shout! a band

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand. 820

Their leader's nervous arm is bare,
Swifter to smite, and never to spare
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them


Thus in the fight is he ever known.
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,
Alp is but known by the white arm bare;
Look through the thick of the fight, 't is

There is not a standard on that shore
So well advanced the ranks before;
There is not a banner in Moslem war
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
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,
Though faint beneath the mutual wound,
Grappling on the gory ground.


Still the old man stood erect,
And Alp's career a moment check'd.
'Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take,
For thine own, thy daughter's sake.'



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As he saw Alp staggering bow 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. 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, 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, 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 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. 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, 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, Without a hope from mercy's aid, To the last a Renegade.


Fearfully the yell arose

Of his followers and his foes, These in joy, in fury those. 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, 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.






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,
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.
There they yet may breathe awhile,
Shelter'd by the massy pile.


Brief breathing-time! the turban'd host,
With adding ranks and raging boast,
Press onwards with such strength and


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

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, 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 It bends it falls - and all is o'er; Lost Corinth may resist no more!


Through the massy column to turn and fly;
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


Darkly, sternly, and all alone,
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone.
Madonna's face upon him shone,
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
Her, and the boy-God on her knee,
Smiling sweetly on each
To heaven, as if to waft it there,





Still she smiled; even now she smiles, Though slaughter streams along her aisles. 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.


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
The varied marble's veins diffuse,
Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and



With broken swords and helms o'erthrown. There were dead above, and the dead below

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row;
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
In masses by the fleshless dead.
Here, throughout the siege, had been
The Christians' chiefest magazine;
To hese a late-form'd train now led,
Minotti's last and stern resource
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.



The foe came on, and few remain
To strive, and those must strive in vain.
For lack of further lives, to slake
The thirst of vengeance now awake,
With barbarous blows they gash the dead,
And lop the already lifeless head,
And fell the statues from their niche,
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich,
And from each other's rude hands wrest
The silver vessels saints had bless'd.
To the high altar on they go;
Oh, but it made a glorious show!
On its table still behold

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Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,

The turban'd victors, the Christian

All that of living or dead remain,
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane,
In one wild roar expired!
The shatter'd town the walls thrown
The waves a moment backward bent
The hills that shake, although unrent,
As if an earthquake pass'd

The thousand shapeless things all driven
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven,
By that tremendous blast
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er
On that too long afflicted shore.
Up to the sky like rockets go
All that mingled there below:
Many a tall and goodly man,
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span,
When he fell to earth again
Like a cinder strew'd the plain.
Down the ashes shower like rain;
Some fell in the gulf, which received the

With a thousand circling wrinkles;
Some fell on the shore, but, far away,
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay;
Christian or Moslem, which be they?
Let their mothers see and say!
When in cradled rest they lay,
And each nursing mother smiled
On the sweet sleep of her child,
Little deem'd she such a day
Would rend those tender limbs away.
Not the matrons that them bore
Could discern their offspring more;
That one moment left no trace
More of human form or face
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone.

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