Lyra Heroica Part 23

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 retreating, unsurrounded.

Many a scar of former fight Lurked beneath his corselet bright; But of every wound his body bore, Each and all had been ta'en before: Though aged, he was so iron of limb, Few of our youth could cope with him, And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, Outnumbered his thin hairs of silver grey.

From right to left his sabre swept; Many an Othman mother wept Sons that were unborn, when dipped 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.

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 sh.o.r.e; 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.

THE MAGAZINE

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, Minotti stood o'er the altar-stone: Madonna's face upon him shone, Painted in heavenly hues above, With eyes of light and looks of love; And placed upon that holy shrine To fix our thoughts on things divine, When pictured there, we kneeling see Her, and the boy-G.o.d on her knee, Smiling sweetly on each prayer To heaven, as if to waft it there.

Still she smiled; even now she smiles, Though slaughter streams along her aisles: Minotti lifted his aged eye, And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; And still he stood, while with steel and flame Inward and onward the Mussulman came.

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone Contained the dead of ages gone; Their names were on the graven floor, But now illegible with gore; The carved crests, and curious hues The varied marble's veins diffuse, Were smeared, and slippery, stained, and strown With broken swords and helms o'erthrown: There were dead above, and the dead below Lay cold in many a coffined row; You might see them piled in sable state, By a pale light through a gloomy grate; But War had entered their dark caves, And stored along the vaulted graves Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread In ma.s.ses by the fleshless dead: Here, throughout the siege, had been The Christians' chiefest magazine; To these a late formed train now led, Minotti's last and stern resource Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.

The foe came on, and few remain To strive, and those must strive in vain: For lack of further lives, to slake The thirst of vengeance now awake, With barbarous blows they gash the dead, And lop the already lifeless head, And fell the statues from their niche, And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, And from each other's rude hands wrest The silver vessels saints had blessed.

To the high altar on they go; O, but it made a glorious show!

On its table still behold The cup of consecrated gold; Ma.s.sy and deep, a glittering prize, Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: That morn it held the holy wine, Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, Which his wors.h.i.+ppers drank at the break of day, To shrive their souls ere they joined in the fray.

Still a few drops within it lay; And round the sacred table glow Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, From the purest metal cast; A spoil--the richest, and the last.

So near they came, the nearest stretched To grasp the spoil he almost reached, When old Minotti's hand Touched with the torch the train-- 'Tis fired!

Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, The turbaned victors, the Christian band, All that of living or dead remain, Hurl'd on high with the s.h.i.+vered fane, In one wild roar expired!

The shattered town--the walls thrown down-- The waves a moment backward bent-- The hills that shake, although unrent, As if an earthquake pa.s.sed-- The thousand shapeless things all driven In cloud and flame athwart the heaven By that tremendous blast-- Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er On that too long afflicted sh.o.r.e: Up to the sky like rockets go All that mingled there below: Many a tall and goodly man, Scorched and shrivelled to a span, When he fell to earth again Like a cinder strewed the plain: Down the ashes shower like rain; Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles With a thousand circling wrinkles; Some fell on the sh.o.r.e, but far away Scattered o'er the isthmus lay; Christian or Moslem, which be they?

Let their mother say and say!

When in cradled rest they lay, And each nursing mother smiled On the sweet sleep of her child, Little deemed she such a day Would rend those tender limbs away.

Not the matrons that them bore Could discern their offspring more; That one moment left no trace More of human form or face Save a scattered scalp or bone: And down came blazing rafters, strown Around, and many a falling stone, Deeply dinted in the clay, All blackened there and reeking lay.

All the living things that heard That deadly earth-shock disappeared: The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, And howling left the unburied dead; The camels from their keepers broke; The distant steer forsook the yoke-- The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, And burst his girth, and tore his rein; The bull-frog's note from out the marsh Deep-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh; The wolves yelled on the caverned hill Where echo rolled in thunder still; The jackals' troop in gathered cry Bayed from afar complainingly, With a mixed and mournful sound, Like crying babe, and beaten hound: With sudden wing and ruffled breast The eagle left his rocky nest, And mounted nearer to the sun, The clouds beneath him seemed so dun; Their smoke a.s.sailed his startled beak, And made him higher soar and shriek-- Thus was Corinth lost and won!

_Byron._

LXXIV

ALHAMA

The Moorish King rides up and down, Through Granada's royal town; From Elvira's gates to those Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Letters to the monarch tell How Alhama's city fell: In the fire the scroll he threw, And the messenger he slew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in.

Woe is me, Alhama!

When the Alhambra walls he gained, On the moment he ordained That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And when the hollow drums of war Beat the loud alarm afar, That the Moors of town and plain Might answer to the martial strain-- Woe is me, Alhama!--

Then the Moors, by this aware, That b.l.o.o.d.y Mars recalled them there One by one, and two by two, To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before, 'Wherefore call on us, O King?

What may mean this gathering?'

Woe is me, Alhama!

'Friends! ye have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow; That the Christians, stern and bold, Have obtained Alhama's hold.'

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see, 'Good King! thou art justly served, Good King! this thou hast deserved.

Woe is me, Alhama!

By thee were slain, in evil hour, The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; And strangers were received by thee Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And for this, O King! is sent On thee a double chastis.e.m.e.nt: Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, One last wreck shall overwhelm.

Woe is me, Alhama!

He who holds no laws in awe, He must perish by the law; And Granada must be won, And thyself with her undone.'

Woe is me, Alhama!

Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes, The monarch's wrath began to rise, Because he answered, and because He spake exceeding well of laws.

Woe is me, Alhama!

'There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings:'

Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish King, and doomed him dead.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!

Though thy beard so h.o.a.ry be, The King hath sent to have thee seized, For Alhama's loss displeased.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone; That this for thee should be the law, And others tremble when they saw.

Woe is me, Alhama!

'Cavalier, and man of worth!

Let these words of mine go forth!

Let the Moorish Monarch know, That to him I nothing owe.

Woe is me, Alhama!

But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys; And if the King his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Sires have lost their children, wives Their lords, and valiant men their lives!

One what best his love might claim Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.