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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.3
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?
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves;
But they live in the verse that immortally saves.*


Hark to the Allah shout ! 5 a band
Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand; 820

1. (Bravo !--this is better than King Priam's fifty sons. GIFFORD.)

2. In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, between the Venetians and Turks.

3. [There can be no such thing ; but the whole of this is poor, and spun out.-GIFFORD. The solecism, if such it be, was repeated in Marino Faliero, act iii. sc. 1, line 38.)

4. [Compare Childe Harold, Canto II. stanza xxix. lines 5-8 (Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 125)

“Dark Sappho ! could not Verse immortal save? ...

If life eternal may await the lyre.”) 5. ["Hark to the Alla Hu!" etc. -GIFFORD.)

Their leader's nervous arm is bare,
Swifter to smite, and never to spare-
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on;
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; 830
Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis 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;

840 Or the hero, silent lying, Scorns to yield a groan in dying; Mustering his last feeble blow 'Gainst the nearest levelled foe, Though faint beneath the mutual wound, Grappling on the gory ground.


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


1. [Gifford has erased lines 839–847.)

“Never, Renegado, never !
Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." i

“ Francesca !-Oh, my promised bride ! ti. Must she too perish by thy pride !"

“ She is safe." "Where? where ? "_" In Heaven;
From whence thy traitor soul is driven-
Far from thee, and undefiled.”
Grimly then Minotti smiled,
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 allowed 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 dashed Alp to the ground;
Ere an eye could view the wound
That crashed through the brain of the infidel,
Round he spun, and down he fell;


i. Though the life of thy giving would last for ever.

[MS. G. Copy.) ii. Where's Francesca ?-my promised bridel-[MS. G. Copy.)

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 turned him on his back; his breast
And brow were stained 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 passed away,
Without a hope from Mercy's aid, -
To the last a Renegade."
i. Here follows in MS. G. -

Twice and once he roll'd a space,

Then lead-like lay upon his face. ii. Sigh, nor sign, nor parting word.-(MS. G. erased.] 1. [The Spanish “renegado" and the Anglicized “renegade" were favourite terms of reprobation with politicians and others at the beginning of the century. When Southey's Wat Tyler was reprinted in 1817, William Smith, the Member for Norwich, denounced the Laureate as a "renegado,” an attack which Coleridge did his best to parry by contributing articles to the Courier on “Apostasy and Renegadoism” (Letter to Murray, March 26, 1817, Memoir of John Murray, 1891, i. 306). Byron himself, in Don Juan (Dedication," stanza i. line 5), hails Southey as “My Epic Renegade!” Compare, too, stanza xiv. of Lines addressed to a Nobie Lord (His Lordship will know why), By one of the small Fry of the Lakes” (i.e. Miss Barker, the “ Bhow Begum "of Southey's Doctor)

And our Ponds shall better please thee,
Than those now dishonoured seas,
With their shores and Cyclades
Stocked with Pachas, Seraskiers,
Slaves and turbaned Buccaneers;
Sensual Mussulmans atrocious,
Renegadoes more ferocious," etc.)


Fearfully the yell arose
Of his followers, and his foes;
These in joy, in fury those :
Then again in conflict mixing, li.
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,
Sheltered by the massy pile.



Brief breathing-time! the turbaned host,
With added ranks and raging boast,

i. These in rage, in triumph those.—[MS. G. Copy erased.] ii. Then again in fury mixing:-[MS. G.)

1. [“ Dealing death with every blow."-GIFFORD.)

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