Hand to hand, and foot to foot:
Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter, or for victory.

From the point of encountering blade to the hilt,
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt:

:

But the rampart is won-and the spoil begun-
And all, but the after-carnage, done.
Shriller shrieks now mingling come
From within the plundered dome.
Hark, to the haste of flying feet,

That splash in the blood of the slippery street!

LI.-SCENE AFTER THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.-Byron.

ALP wandered on, along the beach,

Till within the range of a carbine's reach

Of the leaguered wall; but they saw him not,

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot?

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold?

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts waxed cold?
I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall
There flashed no fire, and there hissed no ball,
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown,
That flanked the sea-ward gate of the town;
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,

As his measured step on the stone below
Clanked, as he paced it to and fro:

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall

Hold o'er the dead their carnival,

Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb;

They were too busy to bark at him!

From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh,

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;

And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull,

As it slipped through their jaws when their edge grew dull,

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed; So well had they broken a lingering fast

With those who had fallen for that night's repast.

And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand,

The foremost of these were the best of his band.

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,

The hair was tangled round his jaw.

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Picked by the birds, on the sands of the bay!

Alp turned him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;
But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,

Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
-There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lour;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,

And Honour's eye on daring deeds!

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead,

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there,

All regarding man as their prey,

All rejoicing in his decay!

LII. THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.-Mrs. Norton.

My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye! Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed;

I may not mount on thee again!-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind;
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold;—
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell!-thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt
sold!

Farewell! Those free untirèd limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
That silky mane I braided once, must be another's care.

The morning sun shall dawn again-but never more with thee
Shall I gallop o'er the desert paths where we were wont to be
Evening shall darken on the earth; and, o'er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright-
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I startling wake, to feel thou'rt sold! my Arab steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein!
Will they ill use thee?—if I thought-but no,-it cannot be ;
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free;—
And yet if haply when thou'rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
"Return!"-alas! my Arab steed! what will thy master do,
When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering

tears

Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears?

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone,
Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause and sadly think,-
“'Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.”
When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er!
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more;
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong--
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
"Tis false! 'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains!
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains.

LIII. THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.-Mrs. Blackwood. I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side,

On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high,

And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again!
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my
cheek;

And I still keep listening for the words, you never more may speak! "Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary-I see the spire from here; But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest;

For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends;
But, oh, they love the better far, the few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride ;-
There's nothing left to care for, now, since my poor Mary died!
Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm's young strength
was gone:

There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow;
I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now!
I thank you for that patient smile, when your heart was like to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my
sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore;
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no

more.

I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true,
But I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm going to:

They say there's bread and work for all. and the sun shines always there;

But I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair!

And often, in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see that little stile where we sat side by side,
And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you
were my bride!

LIV.-LORD WILLIAM.-Southey.

No eye beheld when William plunged young Edmund in the stream;
No human ear but William's heard young Edmund's drowning scream.
Submissive, all the vassals owned the murderer for their lord;
And he as rightful heir-possessed the house of Erlingford.

The ancient house of Erlingford stood in a fair domain;
And Severn's ample waters near, rolled through the fertile plain.
And often the way-faring man would love to linger there,
Forgetful of his onward road, to gaze on scenes so fair.

But never could Lord William dare to gaze on Severn's stream;
In every wind that swept its waves, he heard young Edmund
scream!

In vain, at midnight's silent hour, sleep closed the murderer's eyes;
In every dream the murderer saw young Edmund's form arise!
--To other climes the pilgrim fled-but could not fly despair;
He sought his home again--but peace was still a stranger there.
Slow went the passing hours, yet swift the months appeared to roll;
And now the day returned, that shook with terror William's soul—
A day that William never felt return without dismay;
For, well had conscience calendar'd young Edmund's dying day.
A fearful day was that! the rains fell fast with tempest roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread far on the level shore.

--In vain Lord William sought the feast, in vain he quaffed the bowl,
And strove, with noisy mirth, to drown the anguish of his soul-
The tempest, as its sudden swell in gusty howlings came,
With cold and death-like feelings seemed to thrill his shuddering
frame.

Reluctant, now, as night came on, his lonely couch he pressed;
And, wearied out, he sank to sleep,--to sleep-but not to rest!
Beside that couch, his brother's form, Lord Edmund, seemed to stand!
Such, and so pale, as when in death he grasped his brother's hand;
Such, and so pale his face, as when with faint and faltering tongue,
To William's care--a dying charge!--he left his orphan son.
"I bade thee with a father's love my orphan Edmund guard—
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge! now take thy due reward!"
-He started up--each limb convulsed with agonizing fear:
He only heard the storm of night, 'twas music to his ear!
When, lo! the voice of loud alarm his inmost soul appals:
"What ho! Lord William, rise in haste! the water saps thy walls!"
He rose in haste:--beneath the walls he saw the flood appear!

It hemmed him round--'twas midnight now--no human aid was near!
-He heard the shout of joy!-for now a boat approached the wall;
And eager to the welcome aid they crowd for safety all.—

My boat is small," the boatman cried, "'twill bear but one away; Come in, Lord William! and do ye in heaven's protection stay."

Then William leaped into the boat. his terror was so sore;

66

Thou shalt have half my gold!" he cried. "Haste!-haste to yonder shore !"

The boatman plied the oar; the boat went light along the stream ;--Sudden Lord William heard a cry, like Edmund's drowning scream! The boatman paused: "Methought I heard a child's distressful cry!" ""Twas but the howling wind of night," Lord William made reply; "Haste!—haste !-ply swift and strong the oar! haste!-haste across the stream!"

66

Again Lord William heard a cry, like Edmund's drowning scream! I heard a child's distressful voice," the boatman said again. "Nay, hasten on !—the night is dark-and we should search in vain!" "And oh! Lord William, dost thou know how dreadful 'tis to die? And canst thou without pitying hear a child's expiring cry? How horrible it is to sink beneath the chilly stream,

To stretch the powerless arms in vain, in vain for help to scream!"

The shriek again was heard: it came more deep, more piercing loud:
That instant o'er the flood the moon shone through a broken cloud;
And near them they beheld a child-upon a crag he stood-
A little crag, and all around was spread the rising flood.
The boatman plied the oar-the boat approached his resting place-
The moon-beam shone upon the child-and showed how pale his face!
Now, reach thine hand!" the boatman cried, "Lord William, reach
and save!".

66

The child stretched forth his little hands to grasp the hand he gave! Then William shrieked; the hand he touched was cold, and damp, and dead!

He felt young Edmund in his arms! a heavier weight than lead! "Oh, mercy I help!" Lord William cried, "the waters o'er me flow!" "No to a child's expiring cries no mercy didst thou show!" The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk, beneath the avenging stream; He rose, he shrieked no human ear heard William's drowning scream!

LV.-CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.-Mrs. Hemans.

TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a King lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontévraud;
Banners of battle o'er him hung, and warriors slept beneath;
And light, as the noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of
Death.

On the settled face of Death, a strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by censers' breath, yet it fell still brightest there,

As if each deeply-furrowed trace of earthly years to show :

Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, sang mass for the parted soul:

And solemn were the strains they poured in the stillness of the night, With the cross above, and the crown, and sword,-and the silent King in sight.