THE ASSAULT. (SIEGE OF CORINTH, Stanza 22-27.) LIGHTLY and brightly breaks away And the Noon will look on a sultry day. Hark to the trump, and the drum, And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, "They come ! they come!" The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word. Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, Strike your tents, and throng to the van; Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, That the fugitive may flee in vain, When he breaks from the town; and none escape, Aged or young, in the Christian shape; While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, And crush the wall they have crumbled before : Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, So is the blade of his scimitar; The khan and the pachas are all at their post; A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! "There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale; * * * * The rampart is won, and the spoil begun, Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. There stood an old man-his hairs were white But his veteran arm was full of might : So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, The dead before him, on that day, In a semicircle lay; Still he combated unwounded, Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." "Francesca !-Oh, my promised bride! 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, "Oh God! when died she?"- 66 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 The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground. Ere an eye could view the wound That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, Round he spun, and down he fell. PARISINA. (PARISINA, Stanzas 1, 2.) IT is the hour when from the boughs Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, As twilight melts beneath the moon away. But it is not to list to the waterfall And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower- There glides a step through the foliage thick, THE LAST OF EZZELIN. (LARA, Canto ii. Stanza 24.) UPON that night (a peasant's is the tale) Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : |