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

night.

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 610
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,

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

dream;

From the shadowy wall where their images frown;

Fearfully flitting to and fro,

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.

630

If not for love of me be given Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, Again I say,- that turban tear From off thy faithless brow, and swear Thine injured country's sons to spare, Or thou art lost; and never shalt see Not earth, that's past but heaven or me. 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.

640

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,
I am no changeling 't is too late;
The reed in storms may bow and quiver,
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!

660

670

Nothing is there but the column stone. Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? He saw not he knew not- but nothing is there.

Still he combated unwounded,
Though retreating, unsurrounded.
Many a scar of former fight
Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright;
But of every wound his body bore,
Each and all had been ta'en before.
Though aged, he was so iron of limb,
Few of our youth could cope with him;
And the foes, whom he singly kept at
bay,

800

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;

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

810

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!

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.

XXVII

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.'

'Never, renegado, never!

831

840

850

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever.'

night

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

880

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.

890

900

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

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; 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

930

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still;

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!

940

950

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 these a late-form'd train now led,
Minotti's last and stern resource
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.

XXXII

980

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;

ΠΟΙΟ

1020

1030

Some fell in the gulf, which received the

sprinkles

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.

1040

1050