And tuned the softest serenade

That e'er on Adria's waters played.
At midnight to Italian maid.

VIII.

And many deemed her heart was won;
For sought by numbers, given to none,

Had young Francesca's hand remained

Still by the church's bonds unchained :
And when the Adriatic bore

Lanciotto to the Paynim shore,

150

Her wonted smiles were seen to fail,

155

And pensive waxed the maid and pale;

More constant at confessional,

More rare at masque and festival;

Or seen at such, with downcast eyes,

Which conquered hearts they ceased to prize: 160

With listless look she seems to gaze;
With humbler care her form arrays;

Her voice less lively in the song;

Her step, though light, less fleet among
The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance.

165

IX.

Sent by the state to guard the land,

(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand,
While Sobieski tamed his pride

By Buda's wall and Danube's side,
The chiefs of Venice, wrung away

From Patra to Euboea's bay,)
Minotti held in Corinth's towers
The Doge's delegated powers,

170

Had fairer form adorned the shore

Than she, the matchless stranger, bore.

X.

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn;

185

And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn,

O'er the disjointed mass shall vault

The foremost of the fierce assault.
The bands are ranked; the chosen van
Of Tartar and of Mussulman,
The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn,"
Who hold the thought of death in scorn,
And win their way with falchions' force,
Or pave the path with many a corse,
O'er which the following brave may rise,
Their stepping-stone-the last who dies!

XI.

"Tis midnight: on the mountain's brown

The cold, round moon shines deeply down;

Blue roll the waters, blue the sky

Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there

Calm, clear, and azure as the air;

190

195

200

205

And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,

210

215

As rose the Muezzin's voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer;
It rose, that chaunted mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain :
"Twas musical, but sadly sweet,

225

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,

An undefined and sudden thrill,

Which makes the heart a moment still,
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed
Of that strange sense it's silence framed;
Such as a sudden passing-bell

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.

XII.

235

The tent of Alp was on the shore;

The sound was hushed, the prayer was o'er;

240

The watch was set, the night-round made,

Not his the loud fanatic boast

To plant the crescent o'er the cross,

Or risk a life with little loss,