"And where should our bridal couch be spread? For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame Shall be left upon the morn : But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot. There thou yet shalt be my bride, When once again I've quelled the pride Of Venice; and her hated race Have felt the arm they would debase Scourge with a whip of scorpions those Whom vice and envy made my foes." Upon his hand she laid her own— Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. Though slight, was that grasp so mortal cold, Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, Froze through his blood by their touch that night. And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, So deeply changed from what he knew: Of mind, that made each feature play And her motionless lips lay still as death, And her words came forth without her breath, And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight; As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down From the shadowy wall where their images frown; Fearfully flitting to and fro, As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. "If not for love of me be given Thus much, then, for the love of heaven— From off thy faithless brow, and swear A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, That doom shall half absolve thy sin, There is a light cloud by the moon— Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside This first false passion of his breast No-though that cloud were thunder's worst, He look'd upon it earnestly, He watch'd it passing; it is flown; The reed in storms may bow and quiver, Nothing is there but the column stone. Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 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, 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, 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, But here and there, where 'vantage ground 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, |