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Which curl in curious wreaths—How soon the smoke
That awful pause, divided life from death,
Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath, A moment and all will be life again !
The march! the charge ! the shouts of either faith! Hurra! and Allah! and—one moment more The Death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.
A BATTLE SCENE.
As rolls the river into ocean,
As the sea-tide's opposing motion,
And pealing wide or ringing near
Its echoes on the throbbing ear,
Reverberate along that vale,
AN ASSAULT ON A CITY BY NIGHT.
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, Which arched the horizon like a fiery cloud,
And in the Danube's waters shone the same, A mirrored Hell! The volleying roar, and loud
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes Spare or smite rarely-Man's make millions ashes ! The column ordered on the assault scarce passed
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices; Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,
Which rocked as 'twere beneath the mighty noises ; While the whole rampart blazed like Ætna, when The restless Titan hickups in his den. And one enormous shout of “ Allah !” rose.
In the same moment, loud as even the roar
Of War's most mortal engines, to their foes
Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore Resounding “ Allah !” and the clouds which close
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through All sounds it pierceth, “ Allah! Allah ! Hu *!”
A SCENE AFTER A BATTLE. Upon a taken bastion where there lay
Thousands of slaughtered men, a yet warm group Of murdered women, who had found their way
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop And shudder ;-while, as beautiful as May,
A female child of ten years tried to stoop And hide her little palpitating breast Amidst the bodies killed in bloody rest. Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child
With flashing eyes and weapons : matched with The rudest brute that roams Siberia’s wild [them
Has feelings pure and polished as a gem,-
And whom for this at last must we condemn ?
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead :
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, I shall not say exactly what he said,
Because it might not solace “ ears polite;"
* Allah Hu! is properly the war cry of the Mussul. mans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which gives it a very wild and peculiar effect.
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder
As he turned o'er each pale and gory cheek, Don Juan raised his little captive from The heap a moment more had made her tomb. . And she was chill as they, and on her face
A slender streak of blood announced how near Her fate had been to that of all her race;
For the same blow which laid her mother here
As the last link with all she had held dear;
Upon each other, with dilated glance,
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase.
THE FATE OF BEAUTY..
And leads him on from flower to flower
BLUES AND AMATEUR AUTHORS. They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; · Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ;