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It was too late to check the wasting brand,
And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land;

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 925
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead.

xi.

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung,
The first success to Lara's numbers clung:

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all,

They form no longer to their leader's call;
In blind confusion on the foe they press,
And think to snatch is to secure success.
The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate,
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate;
In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do,

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To check the headlong fury of that crew;

In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame,

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame;

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood,
And shown their rashness to that erring brood: 940
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade,

The daily harass, and the fight delay'd,

The long privation of the hoped supply,

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky,

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 945 And palls the patience of his baffled heart,

Of these they had not deem'd: the battle-day
They could encounter as a veteran may;
But more preferr'd the fury of the strife,
And present death to hourly suffering life:
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away
His numbers melting fast from their array;
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent,
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent:
But few remain to aid his voice and hand,
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band:
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd.
One hope survives, the frontier is not far,
And thence they may escape from native war;
And bear within them to the neighbouring state
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate:
Hard is the task their father land to quit,

But harder still to perish or submit.

XII.

It is resolved-they march-consenting Night

Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight;

Already they perceive its tranquil beam

Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream;
Already they descry-Is yon the bank?
Away! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank.

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Return or fly!-What glitters in the rear?
'Tis Otho's banner-the pursuer's spear!
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height?
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight:
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil,
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil!

XIII.

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A moment's pause, 'tis but to breathe their band,
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand?
It matters little-if they charge the foes
Who by the border-stream their march oppose,
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line,
However link'd to baffle such design.

"The charge be ours! to wait for their assault
"Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt."
Forth flies each sabre, reined is every steed,

And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed:

In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath
How many shall but hear the voice of death!

XIV.

His blade is bared, in him there is an air
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair;
A something of indifference more than then
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men-

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He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near,

And still too faithful to betray one fear;

Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 995
Along his aspect an unwonted hue

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest
The truth, and not the terror of his breast.
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his :
It trembled not in such an hour as this;
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart,
His eye alone proclaim'd, "We will not part!
"Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee,
"Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!"

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The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven,
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven;
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel,
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel;
Outnumber'd not outbraved, they still oppose
Despair to daring, and a front to foes;
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream,
Which runs all redly till the morning beam.

XV.

Commanding, aiding, animating all,

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Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall,

Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel,

Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel.

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;

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None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain
But those that waver turn to smite again,
While yet they find the firmest of the foe
Recoil before their leader's look and blow:
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone,
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own;
Himself he spared not-once they seem'd to fly—
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high,
And shook-Why sudden droops that plumed crest?
The shaft is sped-the arrow's in his breast!
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side,
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride.
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue;
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung! 1030
But yet the sword instinctively retains,

;

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Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins
These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow,
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow,
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage:
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again;
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain!

XVI,

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead,
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head;

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