Which curl in curious wreaths-How soon the smoke
Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak !
Here pause we for the present-as even then
That awful pause, divided life from death,
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,
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 moreThe Death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.
As rolls the river into ocean,
In sable torrent wildly streaming;
As the sea-tide's opposing motion,
In azure column proudly gleaming,
Beats back the current many a rood,
In curling foam and mingling flood,
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave,
Roused by the blast of winter, rave;
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash,
The lightnings of the waters flash
In awful whiteness o'er the shore,
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ;
Thus- -as the stream and ocean greet,
With waves that madden as they meet-
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong,
And fate, and fury, drive along.
The bickering sabres' shivering jar;
And pealing wide or ringing near
Its echoes on the throbbing ear,
The death-shot hissing from afar;
The shock, the shout, the groan of war,
Reverberate along that vale,
More suited to the shepherd's tale:
Though few the numbers theirs the strife,
That neither spares nor speaks for life!
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,
To seize and share the dear caress:
But Love itself could never pant
For all that Beauty sighs to grant
With half the fervour Hate bestows
Upon the last embrace of foes,
When grappling in the fight they fold
Those arms that ne'er shall loose their hold:
Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith;
True foes, once met, are join'd till death!
AN ASSAULT ON A CITY BY NIGHT.
The night was dark, and the thick mist allowed
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
Has feelings pure and polished as a gem,
The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild:
And whom for this at last must we condemn ? Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?
Their sabres glittering o'er her little head,
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 Mussulmans, 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,
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.
One's hip he slashed, and split the other's shoulder,
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
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
Had scarred her brow, and left its crimson trace
As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she opened her large eyes,
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.
Just at this moment, while their eyes were fixed
Upon each other, with dilated glance,
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mixed
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
Unto his protegee; while her's, transfixed
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.
As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen of eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye-
So Beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild;
A chace of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betray'd,
Woe waits the insect and the maid;
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play, and man's caprice:
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught,
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brushed its brightest hues away,
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah! where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar
From rose to tulip as before?
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower?
No: gayer insects fluttering by
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own,
And every woe a tear can claim
Except an erring sister's shame.
BLUES AND AMATEUR AUTHORS.
They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism; Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse;
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