^jO^ 
 
 wi^ 
 
 University of California • Berkeley 
 Presented by 
 DR. JOSEPH R. GOLDYNE 
 in honor of 
 DAVID B. MAGEE 
 
a. 
 
 e^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^.g^^ t^A^€^.^^C^ 
 
*-»•<* 
 
9[gne0, 
 
 THE 
 
 INDIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 A POEM, IN FOUR CANTOS. 
 
 WITH 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. JOHN MITFORD, A.B. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REE9, ORME, AND BROWN, 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1811. 
 
Lombard-Street, Whitefrian, LondoM. 
 
TO 
 
 ROBERT MITFORD, ESQ. 
 THIS POEM 
 
 IS INSCRIBED WITH MUCH AFFECTION 
 
 BY 
 
 HIS BROTHER, 
 
 THE AUTHOR, 
 
 \ 
 
Digitized by tine Jnlernet Archive 
 
 in 2008 witin funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/agnesindiancaptiOOmitfricli 
 
9[Stte0> 
 
 l-HE 
 
 INDIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 t 
 
 — It is the noon of night; — 
 
 A flood of splendor streams o'er Delhi's wall; 
 And in that fair moonlight 
 
 How dark and deep the giant shadows fall ! 
 
s 
 
 The mooned mosque, the palmy grove. 
 
 Are shining in the silver ray ; 
 And all is bright, below, above. 
 As in the blaze of day. 
 With diamond hue, the maiden beam 
 Glitters on Jemna's pleasant stream ; 
 And lights the poplar leaves that shade 
 The cool and arched colonnade. 
 All ^ill and silent is the air, 
 Or only gentle sounds are there ; 
 The rush that bends its tufted head, 
 To kiss the river's placid bed; 
 The water gurgling as it creeps, 
 Where on its leaf the lily sleeps; 
 The pine's low song-like whispers heard. 
 Like twittering from the forest bird; 
 
3 
 
 Or leaping fish, whose lonely sound 
 Half wakes the echoes slumbering round- 
 
 11. 
 
 But where yon bended mountains seem. 
 With green slope stealing to the vale ; 
 Is it the moon, whose silvery beam 
 
 Illumes their summits pale ? 
 Or are they meteor-fires that glow. 
 With wavering glimmer to and fro. 
 
 Across the marish fen ? 
 And is it but the bittern's boom. 
 Or ChacaVs bark, who through the gloom 
 Is yelling from his den ? 
 It is a brighter fire I guess. 
 That lights yon lonely wilderness. 
 
'Tis not the wild bird's plaintive sound. 
 That moans along the desart bound ; 
 *Tis not the fire-fly*s twinkling gleam. 
 Or lustre of the wan moonbeam : 
 It is the glare of torches bright, 
 That sparkle through the shadowy night; 
 It is the tread of armed men 
 Who shake so deep the forest fen. 
 
 III. 
 
 Encamped within that rocky vale. 
 
 The weary warriors lay ; 
 And sooth it were a glorious tale 
 To tell, how over hill and dale 
 
 They wound their lonely way. 
 
Around their helms the javelins rung. 
 Through their dark locks the tempest sung. 
 While all around, below, beside. 
 Was one huge desart wild and wide. 
 And many an icey precipice. 
 That yawned above the dark abyss ; 
 And like the angel form of death. 
 Rolled the red Sameel's panting breath ; 
 Yet never looked they back to find 
 Those pleasant hills they left behind ; 
 Sought not the breeze, that, fresh and cool, 
 Plaj^ed through the leaves of Canighul 5 
 !Nor thought upon that distant land 
 Where rose the spires of Samarcand. 
 They trod o'er Kant ell's cliiFs of snow ; 
 By Cashmere's lakes that spread below ; 
 
And rode by Ghisni's granite steep. 
 And Nilah's waters dark and deep. 
 Through Moultan's caney jungles sped. 
 And over Cagga's flinty bed ; 
 And Batnir's frowning fortress passed. 
 And Hissar*s forests gained at last ; 
 Nor staid till in the morning beam 
 They saw high Delhi's turrets gleam ; 
 And viewed its mosques of marble throw 
 4.1oft in air their domes of snow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A lion-heart had he who led 
 
 O'er rock and hill his warrior band; 
 Before his path of slaughter fled 
 
 The bravest of the land. 
 
And Timur*s name would scare to rest 
 
 The infant at the mother's breast ; 
 
 Closer the fearful virgin crept. 
 
 And o*er the tale of horror wept ; 
 
 The old man when he heard the sound 
 
 Would smite his staff upon the ground ; 
 
 Weak was the arm of youth to rear 
 
 Against his bands the slaughtering spear ;. 
 
 And dim was manhood's eagle eye. 
 
 When Timur's ensigns floated nigh. 
 V. 
 —Hushed was the camp ; — the watchfire's light 
 
 Long since had died away ; 
 But yet around its embers bright. 
 The way-worn warriors through the night 
 In heavy slumber lay. 
 
8 
 
 In careless fragments strewn around. 
 
 Their armour glitter*d on the ground; 
 
 Breastplate, and helm, and arrow-sheaf. 
 
 As side by side slept slave and chief. 
 
 The night breeze shook the plumes that lay 
 
 Like snow wreaths on the grassy clay. 
 
 The banner-flags together flung, 
 
 Beneath its moving current swung. 
 
 In even row, and closely bound. 
 
 Their fodder*d food the chargers ground ; 
 
 And loud and deep the iron chains 
 
 Clashed, as they shook their dusty manes. 
 
 Hoarsely the angry watch dogs bayed. 
 
 As prowled the wild wolf through the shade; 
 
 Or when along the tainted air 
 
 They snuffed the leopard's bloody lair ; 
 
And driven in from holt and hill, 
 All night was heard the bleating shrill 
 Of the penn'd flocks, that sought in vain 
 The verdure of their native plain ; 
 And in the sweet and scented gale 
 Remember'd well their pleasant vale. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now frequent swelled the heavy sound 
 
 Of horse-hoofs, trampling through the glade; 
 And iron steps that shook the ground. 
 
 And forms that crossed the thicket*s shade ; 
 And voices borne along the wind 
 Of them, who weak, and far behind. 
 Had tracked their footprints through the dew. 
 Their path by blazing forests knew, 
 
 B5 
 
10 
 
 And saw the smoke that marked their way. 
 And followed by the flaming prey, 
 And joyed to spy the vulture's wing. 
 High in the mid-air hovering ; 
 Till stretched along the moonlight plain. 
 They saw their long-sought camp again. 
 Last of the gathering crowd were seen 
 Two female forms of nobler mien ; 
 Yet strange their dress, and sad their air ; 
 They seemed the Christian garb to wear, • 
 Save that the Moorish turbant bound 
 With silken fold their forehead round ; 
 And in the night-breeze floated far 
 The flowery scarf and rich cymar ; 
 And spread in princely garb to see 
 The golden kirtle to the knee ; 
 
11 
 
 Loose o*er their breasts their tresses flew. 
 Wet with the damp and nightly dew, 
 And ghastly shone their cheek, and pale. 
 Half-seen beneath the shadowy veil. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Beside their steeds a warrior strode ; 
 
 An iron spear his footsteps stayed ; 
 And like an armed guard he trode. 
 As down those craggy steps they rode. 
 That gained the woodland shade. 
 Adown his side his sabre swung. 
 His moonlight shield beside him hung. 
 And in that fair unclouded light. 
 Its cross displayed like silver bright. 
 And pacing o*er the yellow sand 
 Still kept he safe the bridle-hand ; 
 
12 
 
 Or tracked the forest-path that wound 
 Scarce seen beneath the leafy ground ; 
 Or lopt the o*er-hanging boughs that fell. 
 And half o*ergrew the narrow dell ; 
 While many a gentle word between. 
 
 Of hope and comfort he would say; 
 To cheer amid that lonely scene 
 
 The sad companions of his way. 
 He shewed where * gainst the cypress shade. 
 The elk his antler'd head had frayed ; 
 He pointed where the white moonbeam 
 Slept floating on the lonely stream. 
 And loved its snowy brow to lave 
 Within the water's wrinkled wave ; 
 Or glitter through the greenshaw bowers. 
 Like stars that light the fairy's towers; 
 
13 
 
 He l3ade them mark the flitting bird, 
 That through the dusky opening stirred ; 
 Or list the ivy's flapping sound. 
 That clasped the giant cedar round ; 
 And hoped some passing thought to find. 
 That just might sooth the troubled mind ; 
 And like a talisman would scare 
 The foul enchantment of despair, 
 VIII. 
 In youth's first prime was Ferdinand ; 
 
 Yet his the strength that manhood gave ; 
 The fairest maiden of the land, 
 I deem, would plight her rosy hand 
 
 To one so beautiful and brave. 
 And well the plumed casque became 
 His snowy brow, and eye of flame ; 
 
14 
 
 And o'er his cheek the breeze would fling 
 The vermeil blossoms of the spring : 
 He who would win a lady's love 
 
 Need have a face so fair; 
 So beautiful a brow ; above 
 
 Such sable length of hair. 
 For are they not by beauty led, 
 
 And manliness of form to wed ? 
 They loved the bard ; his harp they loved. 
 
 That rang so bright in hall and bower ; 
 Yet never bard those ladies moved, 
 
 To be his paramour. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But to the brave and youthful knight. 
 
 And to the lord of wealthy lands, 
 They yielded up their maiden right. 
 And plighted faith and hands: 
 
15 
 
 And say, boasts now the poet's prayer 
 More magic influence o*er the fair. 
 Than when, high placed at regal board. 
 His strain the raptured minstrel poured ? 
 Yet sooth those dames I would not blame. 
 Lest they the bard uncourteous name, 
 And deem him most ungently born. 
 Who thus would move a lady's scorn ; 
 But we will to our read return. 
 
 Lest riding down the forest-side. 
 Amid the desert-moss and fern. 
 
 Some ill fair Agnes should betide. 
 Or her, who by her side is seen 
 With faded form, and ghastly mien ; 
 And woe-worn eye, whose troubled ray 
 Too plainly tells no brighter day : 
 
16 
 
 The mother who upon her knee 
 Had nursed her playful infancy, 
 And watched her grow beneath her sight. 
 From infant shape to woman's height, 
 And seen each opening feature spread 
 Like rose-buds on their native bed ; 
 The laughing graces of the child 
 Sink in expression meek and mild. 
 As the bright radiance of the day 
 Softens in evening shades away ; 
 E'en she who with a mother's pride 
 Had reared her by her guardian side, 
 Till now in youth's maturer hour 
 She saw her bloom a beauteous flower. 
 In that shrunk form could hardly tell 
 Her gay, her playful Isabel. 
 
17 
 
 X. 
 
 •— 'Tis morn !^for see the orange streaks 
 Are stretching down the sky; 
 
 And as its lustre brighter breaks. 
 The twilight shadows fly. 
 O'er each high crag and mountain head 
 The orient beams their purple spread. 
 And o'er th£ woodlands dark and dun 
 Like a bright angel walks the sun. 
 From bank and bush, from hill and stream, 
 Slowly the curling vapours steam. 
 And spread their skirts of silver dew. 
 Decked with the rainbow's emerald hue ; 
 Each lonely branch and silent spray 
 Now pours aloud its jocund lay, 
 As if some wizard's power had hung 
 On each green leaf a tuneful tongue. 
 
IS 
 
 XI. 
 
 ^* Away ! away ! ere the morning ray 
 
 Has scatter'd the silver dew ; 
 And o*er hill and mead the dark Jiounds lead, 
 
 Of eye and nostril true. 
 And in the scented cedar- grove 
 
 The royal tent prepare ; 
 For through the forest-glades we'll rove. 
 From inland-glen, and river-cove. 
 To shake the wild beast's lair. 
 Few are the bands, and weak of power, 
 That guard each trench and hostile tower. 
 And weaker still (dark Timur cried), 
 I know yon Soldan*s coward pride : 
 One day — and Schiraz' purple wine 
 Within his golden cup shall shine ; 
 
19 
 
 One day— and he may soothe to rest 
 His cares on many a maiden's breast; 
 A redder vintage soon shall glow. 
 His lip a deeper draught shall know, 
 A softer couch shall soon be spread. 
 To ease the monarch's throbbing head ; 
 And armed warriors, dark and deep, 
 Shall fan him to his fevered sleep." 
 
 XII. 
 
 *Tis sweet in pleasant summer tide 
 With hawk, and horn, and hound to ride. 
 
 Through glen and greenwood gay ; 
 And sweet the bloom of forest-bowers. 
 When every field is full of flowers 
 
 'Twixt Midsummer and May. 
 
20 
 
 When blood-hounds yell, and arrows fly. 
 And shouts of huntsmen rend the sky. 
 
 And wild deer from the covert spring : 
 And falcons high in mid- air soar, 
 And Echo louder gives the roar 
 
 Of bugle-blast and clarioning. 
 Then sweet it is through glen and grove 
 With lady by our side to rove ; 
 But nobler was that chase, I ween. 
 
 And prouder was the prey ; 
 From Delhi's gazing turrets seen, 
 When broke, like shafts of lightning keen 
 Flashing each struggling cloud between. 
 
 The golden dawn of day. 
 Scarce could they tell (so swift and strong 
 The trampling squadrons rode along). 
 
21 
 
 For chase or combat they ; 
 Loud rose the watchman's warning call; 
 Till harmless by the moated wall 
 
 The thundering horsemen passed away, 
 
 XIII. 
 And gay the sight when o*er the plain 
 
 Rode forth that beauteous cavalcade ; 
 The proud steed spurned the rider's rein. 
 And tossed on high his snowy mane. 
 
 And bounded down the glade 
 With head high lifted to the gale ; 
 The tall dogs coursed along the vale ; 
 The wild hawk flicker'd with his wing, 
 
 And stooped as if to fly ; 
 And lo ! the ounce in act to spring ; 
 E*en now the leash has slipt its ring, 
 
 And hark the red deer's cry ! 
 
22 
 
 It falls h — ^but why that plaintive sound ? 
 
 Why backward flies each cowering hound P 
 With fluttering wing down yonder hill. 
 Why screams the peacock harsh and shrill ? 
 Why flow in many a bursting tide 
 The sweat drops down the courser's side ? 
 Shout 1 — for the tiger's roused ! — ^he's fled 
 Adown yon crashing thicket's bed; 
 
 Speed swift the arrow from the bow ! 
 He reels, he seeks the jungle's shade ; 
 Well sped ! — that second shaft has laid 
 
 The grinning savage low. 
 
 xiv. 
 
 So they with sabre and with spear. 
 And dogs of chase and fowls of flight. 
 
 O'er heath and hill the spotted deer 
 Pursued through morning's dewy light. 
 
 V 
 
23 
 
 The antelope, and swift gazelle. 
 And many a noble antler fell. 
 O'er dark morass and deep ravine 
 They hawked the gilded florekine, 
 Pursued the wild swan o'er the lake. 
 And pounced the musk deer in the brake ; 
 In their meshed nets the crane was toiled ; 
 The peacock's flowery plume w^as soiled ; 
 Aj^d from his height the crested heron 
 Fell weltering in the mountain fern ; 
 And many a bird of painted wing, 
 In those green pastures summering. 
 And many a beast of hoof and horn. 
 Lay dead beneath that glorious morn. 
 
24 
 
 XV. 
 
 But yet that chase with all its sound, 
 The hawk's wild scream and yell of hound, 
 The charger's neigh along the hill. 
 That challenged to the clarion shrill ; 
 And chorus wild of beast and bird 
 Deep in the forest-echos heard. 
 Small charm, I ween, or power had they 
 From its own griefs the mind to sway. 
 Of her who in the monarch's train 
 Guided her courser's silken rein ; 
 E'en then far other thoughts would rise 
 In mournful sight to Agnes' eyes ; 
 From friends, from country far away. 
 In strangers* hands a helpless prey,-— 
 
25 
 
 And that dear maid whose love seemed given 
 
 This earth to gild with hues of heaven ; 
 
 She saw her sister day by day 
 
 Melt like the maiden snow away. 
 
 Nor charm had she, nor power to save, 
 
 The helpless victim from the grave. 
 
 And he who with a brother's care 
 
 Watched still beside the drooping fair^ 
 
 And still her wasted eye would raise 
 
 With brighter hopes of fairer days ; 
 
 Now sad, and silent, Ferdinand 
 
 Would clasp the mournful maiden's hand. 
 
 Her fate in speechless sorrow feel. 
 
 And weep the woes he could not heal. 
 
26 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Hot smote the sun o'er field and flower ; 
 
 The dogs were panting in the pool ; 
 The hunters sought their leafy bower. 
 To slumber in its covert cool ; 
 And underneath the fair wood-lee. 
 Lay by green turf and sheltering tree. 
 Nor quarry now, nor arrow-head. 
 From the bow's mooned horns has sped ; 
 Nor jarring chord has twang*d behind ; 
 Nor boar-spear lighten*d in the wind. 
 For not a feathery cloud is seen, 
 No shadow gliding o'er the green. 
 
27 
 
 No fresh breeze in the vale ; 
 Each hunted beast has gained the shade. 
 Or in the meadow-foison laid. 
 
 Is listening for the gale. 
 No winglet now of lightsome bird 
 Within the rustling leaves is heard; 
 Nor squirrel leaping on his tree. 
 Nor murmur of the yellow bee ; 
 And yet one loud and bellowing sound 
 Is heard to shake the forest round ; 
 Of the swinckt buffalo, who feeds 
 Amid the river's crackling reeds ; 
 Or crops his herbage deep and dank 
 Beside the cavern* s oozy tank ; 
 Or flings his giant bulk alone 
 Behind the mountain's shadowy cone. 
 
28 
 
 XVII. 
 
 So some beneath ihe cedar shade. 
 
 Or stretched within the chesnut bower ; 
 
 Or by the palm's long shadows laid, 
 Were passing blithe the noontide hour. 
 And some to please their lord would tell 
 Songs of the land he loved so well ; 
 Or chose at times a sadder lay, 
 And sang of those who, far away. 
 Saw their huge host a countless mass 
 Slow through the iron portals pass : 
 And watched their flaming banners gleam. 
 Till sank far off the westering beam : 
 And linger'd o'er the hills, to hear 
 The calling of the distant rear ; 
 
^9 
 
 And shouted, when the drum*s loud roar 
 Pealed along Oxus lonely shore. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And some would sing, how past compare 
 Are they who dwell in Georgia's bowers ; 
 
 But sooth the fairest of the fair 
 
 Are those sweet maids of Teflis towers. 
 And blest with whom they deign to stray 
 At close of evening's dewy ray ; 
 And blest the youth, who woos the maid 
 Within the jasmine's latticed shade ; 
 Or listens to the lute, whose sound 
 Swells o*er the scented orange ground; 
 And sees their silken lashes gleam. 
 Mild as the moon's reflected beam ; 
 
so 
 
 And dark their raven tresses flow 
 Along the bosom's heaving snow. 
 XIX. 
 
 It ceased ! — the gentle roundelay 
 Along the arched arbour died ; 
 
 For see, across yon forest way 
 
 Their dark steeds splash'd with blood and clay. 
 What shouting horsemen ride ! 
 Upsprung the hunters from the ground. 
 For nearer rolled the thundering sound. 
 
 And brighter flashed their armour's gleam ; 
 And thick the courser's panting breath 
 
 In louder sobbings came* 
 ** Who, and for what (dark Timur cried). 
 Who swift your reeling chargers ride. 
 
 Come ye for life or death r"— 
 
31 
 
 « — For life ! for death T* — the warriors cried, 
 " So swift our reeling steeds we ride ; 
 
 No time for stop nor stay. 
 Arm, arm in haste ; he dies who waits ; — 
 — Delhi hath open thrown her gates. 
 
 And Mahmood leads the way. 
 Oh ! haste I — e'en now the war is met, 
 Now flows the tide of blood and sweat; 
 And struck is many a noble blow. 
 And fallen is many a, gallant foe; 
 And many a warrior lies in clay. 
 To rue this battle's mortal fray. 
 
 XX. 
 
 *' Ere l^t our steeds the deathly plahi. 
 Fast flew the javelin's iron rain ; 
 
32 
 
 Hissed the red rocket through the air. 
 While streamed behind its fiery hair. 
 And on its meteor journey driven. 
 Arched with wild flight the cope of heaven ; 
 Shrill rang the bells; and dull and deep 
 The war-drum broke the soldier's sleep. 
 So thick they came from near and far, 
 Rolling the heavy tide of war ; 
 Scarce staid our men the weapon's shock. 
 But, steady as the ocean rock. 
 Foremost the Christian warrior flew. 
 And back the bolt of battle threw ; 
 And where the reeling foemen hung 
 The tide of slaughter there he flung ; 
 And left their mouldering bones to sleep . 
 In the cleft crag and mountain steep," 
 
33 
 
 XXL 
 
 It was a glorious sight, I ween. 
 From yonder mountain summit seen 
 
 Beneath the blaze of day ; 
 In haste though bound, on stretch of speed. 
 Each horseman stayed his pawing steed, 
 
 A moment checked the bridle-rein; 
 For spreading o*er the distant plain 
 They saw the dark array. 
 With bow and buckler on they came, * 
 And shield of proof, and sword of flame ; 
 And leading forth that noble van. 
 Rode many a gallant banner-man ; 
 And wings of horse on either hand 
 Were prancing o'er the yellow sand ; 
 
 C5 
 
34 
 
 Like a dark wood they moved along. 
 Their spears were keen, their armour strong ; 
 Behind, like bastions on the shore. 
 Huge beasts the moving battle bore ; 
 And as the glitt*ring turrets past. 
 Howled loud and deep the arrow-blast ; 
 As when the thunder clouds are driven 
 To launch the lightning shafts of heaven. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A bitter smile it was that played 
 
 (Like sun-gleams through the forest shade) 
 
 Along the chieftain's brow ; 
 Curled his dark cheek, and lit his eye ; 
 For rushing to the conflict nigh 
 
 He saw his trusty bands ; and now 
 
35 
 
 Yon cloud of dust has broke away ; 
 The horse are thundering for their prey ; 
 Each charger's speed he learnt full well. 
 Each warrior*s skill and strength could tell ; 
 Their armour's massive temper knew, 
 The harden'd helm and sabre true ; 
 
 Yet 'mid that iron troop, I ween. 
 
 Was not a statelier charger seen ; 
 
 Not one a costlier armour bare, 
 
 A nobler warrior was not there ; 
 
 Than he who first and foremost rode. 
 
 And bore the hallowed cross of God ; 
 
 And hoped the valour of his sword 
 The captive maids might free ; 
 
 And fought amid that Tartar horde, 
 For Me, for love, and liberty. 
 
36 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Now on thie foe with lion glare 
 Hushed fierce the Tartar's iron band ; 
 
 Before them floated in the air 
 The sheet of Samarkand. 
 But foremost far, with plumage green, 
 Was Ferdinand's bright helmet seen ; 
 Wet with the flaky foam and blood. 
 
 From helm to heel his armour dripped ; 
 And wading through that living flood. 
 
 On floundering hoof his charger slipped. 
 Splashed his red fetlock o'er the plain. 
 So thick were strewn the heaps of slain : 
 The horse and horseman, side by side. 
 
 Lay smeared with blood and clay ; 
 And oh ! thrice happy he who died. 
 
 Nor faint, nor wounded lay. 
 
 1 
 
S7 
 
 While o^er his bruised and mangled breast 
 The steed on bounding pastern prest ; 
 Or through his dinted armour beat 
 The trampling of ten thousand feet. 
 Some wounded left the battle-plain. 
 And fled the forest skirts to gain ; 
 Some reeling from the saddle swung, 
 Or in the cumVring stirrup hung ; 
 Or stretched beneath the sword of proof. 
 Were laid as low as horse's hoof. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 'Tis past — the bloodying sword hath done 
 
 Its work of death to-day ; 
 And like the tempest overblown, 
 
 The war hath rolled away. 
 
38 
 
 Alas ! for them who on the field 
 
 Stretched cold and dead beneath their shield. 
 
 Lie side by side, (a countless train) 
 
 Alike the slayer and the slain ; 
 
 And many a riven helm, I guess. 
 
 And many a steed lies masterless ; 
 
 And scatter'd plume, and gory mail. 
 
 Unfold of war the dreadful tale. 
 
 —Then woe to Delhi's widowed state, 
 
 How lies she pale and desolate ! 
 
 Along her solitary walls 
 
 Aloud the frantic matron calls ; 
 
 And for her harness'd warrior weeps, 
 
 "Who fast in iron armour sleeps ; 
 
 And while that one heart-piercing cry 
 
 Is heard along the echoing sky. 
 
39 
 
 More shrill and deep the trumpet's breath 
 Sings mournfully the blast of death ; 
 And every midnight mountain rings 
 As the loud gong its thunder flings, 
 
 XXV. 
 
 —The victor's camp. — No shrieks were there. 
 No scenes of darkness and despair ; 
 No widow's tears who wept alone. 
 No mother's scream, no father's groan ; — 
 But the loud laugh, the hideous yell. 
 The shout that woke the midnight dell ; 
 The barbarous dance, the Scythian song. 
 The wine-fed bowl the night prolong. 
 Huge umber'd shades, whose armour's rays . 
 Flashed round the watchfire's swarthy blaze. 
 
40 
 
 Stretched in their heavy sleep ; again 
 Fought o'er the dark and deathly plain. 
 An holier glee was his ; whose sword 
 Led on that day the Tartar horde ; 
 And hope, and joy, and chastened fear ; 
 The smile subdued ; the sunny tear ; — 
 For sooth he deemed the well-fought fray 
 His captive ransom then might pay ; 
 And hoped ere gleamed the morn, to lead 
 Far from the camp his battle steed ; 
 And guard o*er dale, and down, and dell. 
 His Agnes, and her Isabel. 
 
41 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hid like the ringdove's shelter'd riest. 
 Far in the rocks and flowery dell. 
 
 Was seen (the calm abode of rest) 
 An ancient hermit's' cell. 
 The birds that sang their carols sweet. 
 The runnels gurgling at its feet ; 
 The green leaf quivering in the gale, 
 The lowing from the meadowy vale ; 
 The falcon's scream heard loud and late. 
 The plover whistling to his mate ; 
 The fawn's faint bleat when overhead. 
 The vulture's cloudy wing was spread ; 
 
42 
 
 The wild crane clattering in his flight, 
 The chacals yelling through the night ; 
 The alligator's distant roar. 
 Like thunder from the river shore ; 
 Were the sole sounds from age to age. 
 That reached that lonely hermitage. 
 
 11. 
 
 There oft the hunted hart would fly. 
 Nor fear the murderous arrow nigh ; 
 Beside its threshold couched the hare, 
 And laid its little^ffspring there. 
 Safe in the moss the green snake lay. 
 And coiled beneath the burning ray ; 
 How could they be of him afraid. 
 Who tenanted the lonely shade, 
 
43 
 
 That aged man !— Tho* spear and shield 
 His youth had borne in battle-field ; 
 Yet long, long since the batter'd mail 
 Hung rent and rusting on the nail ; 
 Along the helmet's altered hue 
 The spider wove his silken clue ; 
 And the huge sword but served to stay 
 His weak steps through the forest way. 
 
 HI. . 
 
 Within his cell a woman knelt. 
 
 Across her breast her pale hands clasp'd ; 
 Yet what the wrongs and woes she felt. 
 
 And why for breath and life she gasped ; 
 
44 
 
 And how her form that mortal strife^ 
 
 So long, so deathly could sustain ; 
 Knew not the man of holy life ; 
 
 Enough for him that grief, and pain^ 
 And sickness sent by cruel fate ; 
 
 And want and woe demanded aid ; 
 And that so young, so fair a maid 
 
 Should be so young and desolate. 
 Oh, joy ! his cares are not in vain. 
 She stirs, she breathes, she lives again. 
 Gone now is doubt and dark despair. 
 Her pale lips move as if in prayer : 
 Her meek eye opes, — aside is drawn 
 For fresher air her veil of lawn ; 
 Oh, joy ! that death and danger past. 
 Here safe poor Agues rests at last. 
 
45 
 
 IV. 
 
 " And earnest thou from that Tartar band?*' 
 
 The ancient hermit said ; 
 ** And who stretched forth the friendly hand. 
 Through that long wilderness of land. 
 
 To guide thee to the shade ? 
 Poor innocent ! and wert thou left 
 Alone ; of human help bereft, 
 
 A turtle with the vultures near ? 
 Yet God who cares alike for all. 
 Nor sees unmarked a sparrow fall, 
 'Twas he, who from his throne above 
 Looked down to save the bleeding dove, 
 
 And laid it peaceful here. 
 Oh ! yet again it shall resume. 
 Though streaked with blood its snowy plume. 
 
4& 
 
 Again shall try its silvery wing ; 
 And nursed in solitude and rest. 
 Once more shall rear its rocky nest. 
 
 And mtd its fellows sing, 
 
 V. 
 
 *' I, too, beheld their squadrons pour 
 
 Down yon tall mountain's side; 
 For like the torrent's distant roar 
 
 Rolled on their battle's pride, 
 I saw o'er helm, and shield, and spear. 
 The van its foremost banner rear. 
 In the bright sun their horse-hoofs glancing, 
 With dazzling gleam their javelins dancing. 
 And heard the arrow-sheafs behind. 
 Like rushes rattling in the wind. 
 
47 
 
 Till fainter still, and more remote. 
 
 The lessening war cry seemed to float. 
 
 Then as the thunder's far off sound. 
 
 It died along the echoing ground. 
 
 I mark'd, too, where their camp had been. 
 
 One boundless ruin shewed the place ; 
 And drear and desolate the scene. 
 
 They left no living trace. 
 Nor herb was there, nor vernal dew ; 
 Alone the black* ning ashes flew. 
 The matted fodder left behind 
 Was whirling in the passing wind. 
 Its leafy mantle torn away. 
 Half burnt the ravag*d forest lay. 
 And here and there beneath the shade 
 Some charger cold and dead was laid ; 
 
48 
 
 One famished dog, as on I past, 
 Was howling to the desart blast. 
 
 VL 
 
 *' And wert thou then a stricken deer. 
 
 Who from the hunters fled for life. 
 And scarcely gained this covert here. 
 
 To pant free from their murderous strife? 
 Yet this lone cell and silent glade 
 Secure shall spread their friendly shade. 
 And each dark rock and shadowy tree 
 Shall lift their sheltering arms for thee,** 
 —The hermit's gentle accents fell 
 
 Soft as the balmy breath of May, ,| 
 
 On her who in his hallowed cell ^i 
 
 In fear and terror lay. 
 
 I 
 
49 
 
 So pale her look, so sad her air. 
 In sooth *twas sorrow seated there ; 
 
 But that her dark eye wandering round 
 
 Some deeper grief betrayed ; 
 Told of some worse and deathly wound 
 That on her reason preyed. 
 Her hand was clasped; and wan her cheek; 
 Her trembling tongue refus'd to speak; 
 'Twas but the bosom*s speechless sob ; 
 'Twas but the heart's convulsive throb; 
 One gushing tear, one rising sigh. 
 That told the maiden's mute reply. 
 VII. 
 The hermit took her trembling hand, 
 And from the cell her footsteps led ; 
 For now the gales of evening fann'd 
 The wild flowers in their mossy bed. 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 He deemed the soft and freshening wind 
 Would sooth to peace the maiden's mind ; 
 Her parch'd and fever*d eyelids steep 
 Amid the balmy dews of sleep ; 
 And calm and cool again would fling 
 O'er her pale cheek the rose of spring. 
 And sooth they did — the beauteous scene 
 Now darker spread its robe of green 
 
 Beneath the shadowy ray ; 
 And yet a soft and silvery bloom 
 Just lingered through the gathering gloom. 
 
 As died the evening lights away. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And fair the moon arose and mild. 
 Along that landscape stretching wild. 
 
51 
 
 The stars were lighting up their towers ; 
 And rising from his couch of dew, 
 From every leaf the Zephyr blew 
 
 The verdure of the bowers. 
 Sweet breathed each floweret of the field. 
 That rear'd to Heaven its painted shield. 
 Or round the thrush*s nest had hung. 
 And thrown its blossoms o*er the young ; 
 Or drooped to see its image gleam 
 With watery light beneath the stream ; 
 The violet on its moss-couch seen. 
 Ere yet the leaves of spring are green ; 
 The hyacinth like the virgin's hair. 
 The pink with spicy tresses fair. 
 And the white lily's silver bloom. 
 And musk-rose with its rath perfume ; 
 
52 
 
 The veriest wretch to whom belong 
 
 Remembrances of human wrong, 
 
 And he upon whose fated head 
 
 The bitter cup of wrath is shed ; 
 
 And who laments from earliest birtli 
 
 The lot that laid his life on earth ; 
 
 Amid these scenes would half forget 
 
 The scorn and wrong his heart had met. 
 
 And hope in those far shades to find 
 
 The long-lost sunshine of the mind. 
 IX. 
 ** And seek'st thou then,*' poor Agnes cried^ 
 
 " To hear my tale of woe? 4 
 
 Oh ! if in sorrow early tried. 
 Then bid the tear that time has dried 
 Afresh begin to flow. 
 
53 
 
 Yet mourn not me, for I have lost 
 
 In other griefs my own ; 
 And in this wide world friendless tost 
 
 Have learnt to weep alone. 
 Nor fear, oh ! ancient friend, to break 
 
 That cell again which memory kept ; 
 Thou canst not from their slumbers wake 
 The griefs that never slept. 
 Oh ! never, never can it be. 
 That help or hope should come to me. 
 Thon canst not sooth the pangs of pain. 
 The mind's lost treasure bring again ; 
 To life recal the fleeting breath, 
 That fled from greater ills to death; 
 Or wish that injur'd form to save. 
 Whose only shelter is the grave. ; 
 
54 
 
 •• But how shall I thy story tell, 
 My poor, lamented Isabel! 
 For thou long since hast slept."— 
 •—And Agnes hid her face and wept, 
 And sobbed with loud and painful breath. 
 For pale and ghastly in her death 
 She saw her injured sister lie, 
 She heard her last convulsive cry ; 
 And she that was a beauteous flower. 
 
 By ruffian hands was soiled and torn ; 
 Yet, Agnes, do not weep the hour 
 
 Poor Isabel was born! 
 For she hath found a place of rest. 
 And lies in Mary's holy breast ; 
 
55 
 
 And slumbers as a child secure 
 Upon that bosom chaste and pure. 
 
 XI. 
 
 <* Alas I a land to us gave birth, 
 A distant land to you unknown ; 
 
 But more, far more than all the earth 
 I prize that land we called our own. 
 And dear to me each hill and plain, 
 That decks with flowers my native Spain> 
 But more than hill, or down, or dale, 
 I love Antillon's lonely vale. 
 Unknown to you — but had you heard 
 The songs so sweet of forest bird ; 
 The shepherd's pipe from mountain hoar> 
 The boatman's carol on the shore ; 
 
56 
 
 The vesper hymn that soft and slow 
 From afigel voices seem*d to flow ; 
 The convent bell heard far and wide. 
 The watchfold's bleat at eventide. 
 Unknown to you— but had you seen. 
 Our wood-cots peeping through the green, 
 Our vine-fields in their autumn glow. 
 Our yellow cornsheafs spread below ; 
 The blossoms sprouting from the tree. 
 The wild deer in the forest free. 
 The vallies green when sun and showers 
 Had filled their bosoms full of flowers. 
 The goat-herd's shed high hung in air. 
 That lit its star on mountain bare. 
 The hamlet lone, the ferny deli ; — 
 You would have lov'd our land most well. 
 
57 
 
 And blessed us as you went, and said 
 
 « 
 His fate was happy there to tread. 
 
 And blest, who, all his wand' rings past. 
 
 In that fair land might sleep at last. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ** It was a father's cruel curse 
 
 That on my suffering sister fell ; 
 He drove her from our home ; and worse 
 Followed — and worse on Isabel. 
 Her maiden faith she would not plight 
 To him who asked a tyrant's right. 
 But firm her spotless vow to hold. 
 Nor quit the heart's true love for gold. 
 And meek she bowed her head to hear 
 
 The malison bestowed ; 
 No* breathed a sigh, nor shed a tear. 
 But bent beneath her load. 
 
 D 5 
 
58 
 
 1 deemed her sorrows all forgot, 
 Resigned and meek she met her lot ; 
 But when once more she rear*d her head^ 
 Oh ! had I been among the dead ; 
 Or ever that I lived to find 
 The ruins of that noble mind. 
 The wildness flashing from her eyc> 
 The scorn that marked her proud reply. 
 The forehead flushed with heat and pain. 
 The fever of the burning brain ; 
 The bitter laugh that seryed to show 
 How deep was dregged the cup of woe. 
 
 XIII. 
 " With her I fled. — How could I part 
 
 From one who twenty summers long 
 Had been the life-blood of my heart. 
 
 My hope, my joy, my song I 
 
59 
 
 I fled with her, how could I less 
 In that extremest wretchedness ! 
 She was a flower of light, and I 
 
 I^ived in the brightness of her name ; 
 Alas ! so soon that misery 
 
 Should cloud her spotless fame. 
 For, oh ! that father's curse, it prest 
 Like some gaunt fiend upon her breast, 
 A weight of woe by night, by day. 
 And drained the blood of life away. 
 But I was blest that I could share 
 The bitterness of her despair ; 
 Her throbbing temples lull to rest. 
 Lean her pale cheek upon my breast ; 
 Wipe her damp brow ; the healing dews 
 From each wild herb and flower infuse. 
 
60 
 
 And blest to breathe her latest sigh, 
 And close in peace her dying eye. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 •^ An endless tale it were to tell 
 
 How long we roamed o'er land and sea ; 
 Since first we bade a sad farewell, 
 
 And looked back on our own countrie : . 
 And saw our native mountains fade 
 More dim through evening's dewy shade ; 
 The thymy cleft, the summer mead, 
 Saw from the gazing eye recede. 
 And one by one in shadows deep 
 The slope and almond-silver* d steep. 
 And glimmering through the distant scene 
 The haven-town and islet green ; 
 
61 
 
 j^nd saw the wavering cressetes glare, 
 Like meteors hung aloft in air. 
 Till lost amid the shadowy haze. 
 Sunk the huge Pharos' kindling blaze, 
 
 XV. 
 
 ** And I would pass the cruel fate 
 
 That wrecked us on the Turkish strand ; 
 Or how we bowed beneath the weight 
 Of bondage in that barbarous land. 
 Yet still beneath my Moorish vest 
 I clasped the crosslet to my breast ; 
 And ever when I went to dip 
 The chalice in the stream, 
 Unseen I prest it to my lip ; 
 
 And soft and mild it seemed to gleam 
 Beneath the evening's dewy beam. 
 
62 
 
 And oft at nightly close of flowers, 
 
 Within the wild wood's scented bowers. 
 
 Unheard my holy songs I made 
 
 To him who sought Death's gloomy shade, 
 
 And died upon the cross to save 
 
 Man from an everlasting grave ; 
 
 And white and pure the lily flower 
 
 That bare him in her lowly bower: 
 
 Blessed Mary ! meek and mild. 
 
 Mother of the blessed child ; 
 
 How oft I loved in holy glee 
 
 To sing my vesper hymns to thee, 
 
 Who bare the child that died for me I 
 
 } 
 
63 
 XVI. 
 
 " So rolled two lingering months away ; 
 
 But then we served another lord ; 
 And fell a weak and helpless prey 
 
 Beneath the Tartar's swortl. 
 Yet light our task ; 'till evening hour. 
 To tend the citron's scented bower ; 
 The pale pink's musky tresses bind. 
 To shield the rosier from the wind ; 
 And twine the jasmine's arch'd arcade. 
 And nurse the green pomegranate shade ; 
 Ere many a moon had waned, it chanced 
 On us the royal eye had glanced : 
 And we found grace before his sight. 
 Who mourned our sad and captive plight ; 
 
64 
 
 Our slavish vests he cast aside. 
 Arrayed us in the robes of pride ; 
 And bade the Christian maids assume 
 The silken veil, and emerald plume ; 
 And bade the Christian w^arrior rear 
 'Mid that fierce band his conquering spear. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Fool that I was — that tearless eye 
 
 Had never wept another's woe ; 
 That heart had never learned to sigh. 
 When youth and beauty met Jhe blow. 
 "Within our tent at midnight deep 
 I watched my sister's broken sleep ; 
 And fanned her hot and panting breast. 
 And lulled her wakeful eye to rest: 
 
65 
 
 When in the night-gale thundering loud 
 
 The clank of iron footsteps swelled ; 
 And round our couch an armed crowd 
 
 Their torches blazing light upheld. 
 The wind their rustling plumage shook. 
 And fierce and savage was their look ; 
 And in that red and sanguine glare 
 Shone their dark brows and streaming hair ; 
 And leaning on their spears, they gazed 
 On her, who breathless and amazed, 
 Sprang frantic from her couch, and turned 
 
 Her wild eye to that ghastly sight ; 
 On helms that in their radiance burned. 
 
 And spears and torches flaming bright ; 
 And listen'd to the hollow sound 
 Of armour clatt'ring on the ground. 
 
66 
 
 XVIII. 
 *< Alike they stood in mute amaze ; 
 Each fixed on each their fearful gaze, 
 
 The warriors and the maid ; 
 No sound, no stir the silence brake. 
 Not one his dreadful errand spake ; 
 While speechless on the ground I gasped^ 
 Yet still their iron gauntlets clasped 
 
 And kneeled, and wept, and prayed ; 
 And round their steely hauberks clung, 
 Or o'er my gasping sister hung ; 
 For in their ghastly smiles too well 
 Their dreadful purpose I could tell ; 
 < And come with us !* (their features bent 
 
 On Isabel) the warriors cried, 
 * E'en now within the royal tent 
 
 The impatient monarch waits his bride : 
 
67 
 
 And round the couch on either hand 
 Are ranged for thee a maiden band ; 
 And they shall strew the path with flowers. 
 That lights thee to the nuptial bowers ; 
 Then come with us, for blest is she 
 Who shares that noble bridaltee.' 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ** As starts the fawn when on her ear 
 The murderous death-cry rises near, 
 A moment wildly stares around. 
 Then springs with one convulsive bound ; 
 As gazes he, and gasps for breath. 
 Who hears the dreadful knell of death ; 
 And knows when sets the westering ray, 
 For him shall rise no second day ; 
 
68 
 
 And suns may smile, and skies may glow, 
 Yet dark and drear is all below. — 
 A moment so stood Isabel, 
 
 When that dread message smote her ear ; 
 Her swimming eye, and bosom's swell. 
 And tottering frame, proclaimed too well 
 
 Despair had master'd fear. 
 Yet ere another moment flew. 
 Gone was that pale and ashen hue; 
 And firm and strong, with hand upraised. 
 Upon those frowning forms she gazed. 
 
 * Yes, I will come,' the maiden cried, 
 
 * And be your monarch's blushing bride ; 
 The trumpet's blast, the clash of spears. 
 Oh ! they shall hush a virgin's fears ; . 
 And flaming through the live-long night 
 Your torches blaze our tent shall light ; 
 
69 
 
 The chargers shaggy housings spread 
 
 To deck our soft and stately bed ; * 
 
 The war-horn's braying loud and deep 
 
 Shall rock us to our pleasant sleep ; 
 
 And bloody swords on either side 
 
 Shall guard the bridegroom and the bride* 
 
 XX. 
 
 '* She seized the spear-stafF in her hand, 
 
 She placed the morion on her brow ; 
 And stood before that armed band. 
 That quaked with fear, as she did stand 
 
 And wave her plumes of snow. 
 They deemed it was no mortal maid 
 Who in those dreadful arms arrayed. 
 
70 
 
 Had quailed the hearts of all : 
 So pale, so deathly was her cheek. 
 Not one his lips could move to speak ; 
 Not one could turn his eyes away, 
 Nor bend his armed knee to pray. 
 
 Nor on the prophet call ; 
 But, oh ! their stubborn hearts did fail. 
 And throb against the iron mail 
 
 In agony and fear : 
 For lo ! death's angel in their view ; 
 So large his eye, so pale his hue, 
 
 So dark his length of hair. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Along .the dust they frantic fell ; 
 They deemed the angel Azrael 
 
71 
 
 Had met them on their way ; 
 Soldier and chief, I saw them fall, 
 I heard the shriek, the coward call 
 
 That did for mercy pray. 
 She threw her eye across the crowd, 
 She cried in thundering voice aloud. 
 
 For him, the mighty king ; 
 She bade them cast him at her feet. 
 And on the ground in triumph meet 
 
 The chained monarch fling. 
 They found him stretched within his tent. 
 With folded arm, and body bent; 
 With trembling lip that feared to pray. 
 With look that told the heart's dismay ; 
 With wild eye raised aloft to Heaven, 
 As he despaired to be forgiven. 
 
72 
 
 XXII. 
 
 ** And he upon whose brow the rays 
 Of thirty crowns were seen to blaze. 
 Whose standard staff in victor pride. 
 With blood twice twenty wars had dyed ; 
 Who in the battle single left. 
 Of all his flying bands bereft. 
 Firm as a rock, and rooted there, 
 Waved high his bloody sword in air ; 
 Till heap on heap, a living mound. 
 His foemen gasped upon the ground ; 
 Who by the cold and wintery moon 
 Swam armed across the dark Sihoon ; 
 And led his Tartar tribes away 
 Far on those icey shores to prey ; 
 
73 
 
 Till Mosco's western turrets shook : 
 E'en he beneath a maiden's look. 
 That lion-lord so fierce and wild. 
 Lay trembling like a weaned child. 
 
74 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 — " The morning came— and all was past.- 
 
 The soul had sought its kindred sky; 
 And left its sojourn here at last 
 
 In purer, happier realms to fly. 
 Far in the solitary dell 
 
 Was dug the mansion of the dead ; 
 And when the clouds of evening fell. 
 Slow to the clarion's mournful swell. 
 
 The chief our sad procession led. 
 And one by one with shield and spear. 
 The warriors trod beside the bier ; 
 And many a soldier's tears were shed 
 In grief and pity for the dead ; 
 
16 ' 
 
 Their steel arms Ifft to Heaven they sung 
 The dirge that wept the fair and young. 
 Her bridal bed, a green grass grave; 
 Her spousal hymn, a funeral stave. 
 
 11. 
 
 *^ With iron sword they dug away 
 
 The dark and narrow ground; 
 Then heaped the hollow shield with clay, 
 
 To rear the lofty mound, 
 A palm its weeping foliage hung. 
 
 Like a green curtain o*er the tomb; 
 And wide its feathery branches flung 
 Amidst the gathering gloom, 
 I turned one parting look to cast; 
 To breathe one sigh the first— the last,—- 
 
To bid a long, a sad farewell ; 
 
 Once more to murmur — * Isabel.'— 
 
 I kneeled beside her tomb and wept. 
 
 Upon its brow the sunbeam slept. 
 
 The palm leaves whisp*ring to the gale. 
 
 Stretched tlieir long shadows down the vale ; 
 
 And soft I thought her rest must be. 
 
 Who slept beneath that lovely tree, 
 
 A throstle, on the cedar spray. 
 
 Sang to the evening's dewy ray. 
 
 And sweet -its deepening music fell, 
 
 And floated down the twilight dell: ^ 
 
 In truth I could not choose but stay, 
 
 And listen to the roundelay. 
 
 Dear was the evening beam that slept 
 
 Upon the grave where I had wept. 
 
77 
 
 And dear that lonely bird to me 
 That sang upon the cedar tree. 
 
 III. 
 
 ** A heathen tomb on heathen ground. 
 
 Marked where the Christian maiden lay ; 
 But from my bosom I unbound 
 The cross ; and deep beneath the mound 
 I pressed it through the clay. 
 
 'Twas all L could, for darker now 
 
 Each warrior bent his iron brow. 
 
 Unsheathed again his battle-blade. 
 
 His ported ensign wide displayed; 
 
 With helm and habergeon they trod, 
 
 0*er the red marie and oozy sod. 
 
 The waggon's griding wheels behind 
 
 Rolled harsh and heavy in the wind. 
 
78 
 
 And over all the war-pipe's breath 
 Blew for the coming scene of death, 
 
 IV. 
 
 ** In that dread host, one helm alonft 
 The Christian banner wore ; 
 
 One armed knee that bent not down; 
 
 One only tongue that would not own 
 The name the prophet bore. 
 Save his, on every warrior's mail 
 The crescent beamed with lustre pale : 
 Yet well beloved was Ferdinand, 
 Amid that fierce and Tartar band ; 
 For when the hour of death was nigh, 
 Sharp was his spear, and keen his eye ; 
 And firm his foot, his arm was brave. 
 And strong his sword to kill or save. 
 
79 
 
 V. 
 
 ^* His youth in far Sobrarva's vales 
 Was nursed beneath a mother's care ; 
 
 And strange in sooth and wild the tales. 
 
 That reached Antillon's lonely dales 
 Of one so young and fair. 
 And well I can recall the day. 
 When busied in our infant play. 
 
 My sister Isabel and I 
 Were gathering up each meadow flower. 
 To screen our little summer bower 
 
 From sun, and wind, and sky ; 
 He stood before us in the light 
 Of youth, and beautiful and bright 
 
80 
 
 His beamy features glowed ; 
 While nursed with all a maiden's care, 
 Adown his breast his floating hair 
 
 In raven ringlets flowed, 
 
 VL 
 
 " His tasselled bugle slung behind. 
 His green robe fluttering in the wind. 
 The emerald broche that bound his vest. 
 The ostrich plume his waving crest ; 
 The hunters* beechen spear that stayed 
 His fleet steps in the forest glade ; 
 His beagles panting on the plain ;— 
 *— In truth I see them all again. 
 Clear as when in that evening hour 
 He stood beside our lowly bower : 
 
SI 
 
 And though dark years have rolled between. 
 
 And many a sad and changeful scene; 
 
 And gone, for ever gone the ray 
 
 That opened on life's vernal day; 
 
 Yet still that sunny gleam appears 
 
 Fair through the darken'd frown of years ; 
 
 As from a bright and angel form 
 
 Flows light to gild the tempest-storm. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ** No youth like Ferdinand could rein. 
 O'er the loose sands, his flying steed ; 
 
 Whirl the swift javelin o*er the plain. 
 Or dart the tufted reed. 
 
 And when along the battle field 
 
 Aloft he bore his silver shield, 
 
 E5 
 
82 
 
 In manly beauty bold ; 
 From his bright lance the streamers flew, 
 White was his plume, his bonnet blue. 
 
 His spur and stirrup gold. 
 And oft with hawk and hunting-spear 
 For me he chased the fallow-deer. 
 Or slew to make my robe of fur 
 The martern and the mynever. 
 Scarce his unerring javelin mist. 
 And true the tercelet at his wrist. 
 And oft for me his barge would glide 
 In beauty down the river-tide. 
 When gleamed the evening star, and shed 
 Its light on rock and mountain head ; 
 And silvered the white sail that flew 
 Along the waters, bright and blue. 
 
83 
 
 VIIL 
 
 ** Yet dearer was the youtli to me. 
 When under the green laurel tree 
 He loved to sing, with harp in hand. 
 The songs that praised our native land ; 
 Old tales they were — long past the time 
 That woke anew the minstrel's rime ; 
 And I have listen'd to the tale. 
 Till wild Antillon*s lonely dale. 
 The ilex grove, the olive shade. 
 Seemed from the musing eye to fade. 
 And heaving o*er the craggy steep. 
 Rose the dark towers, and giant keep. 
 And like the mountain's rocky crown, 
 I saw the distant fortress frown. 
 
84 
 
 And warrior shades, an armed train. 
 Winding along the moonlight plain, 
 
 IX. 
 
 ** And many a song of wildest strain. 
 And tales of hopes and wildest fears, 
 
 He sang, that peasants on the plain 
 Had .carolled in his infant years; 
 Strange songs of wild and fitful mood, 
 That suited well our solitude. 
 Of him he sang (for dear in sooth 
 To memory are the tales of youth. 
 And bright and beautiful remain 
 Their treasured pictures on the brain. 
 And for a moment half efilace 
 Of sorrow's form, the mournful trace). 
 
85 
 
 Of him he sang so nobly born. 
 The master of the mighty horn ; 
 And him whom in the waters wild 
 The white faies nurs*d a beauteous child ; 
 And of the lake that lady fair 
 
 Would rock him in her lily-bower, 
 Would sleek with pearly comb his hair. 
 
 And feed him on the lotus flower ; 
 And him who broken hearted perished. 
 
 Yet on the cold ground faint and pale ; 
 Within his dying bosom cherish'd 
 The blue- eyed maid of Inisfail. 
 X. 
 ** So fled the gentle hours along. 
 In converse Innocent and gay ; 
 The morning walk, the evening song. 
 The dance at close of day. 
 
86 
 
 Such life in faery land is past; 
 
 Such may the blessed spirits know; 
 But never, never could it last 
 Within this world of woe. 
 And when with Isabel I fled. 
 Still Ferdinand our coursers led ; 
 And still he watched us when we slept. 
 And soothed the bitter woes we wept ; 
 And mourned our hapless grief alone, 
 Nor breathed one sigh that told his own* 
 XI. 
 ** When in her lonely bed of clay 
 
 Poor Isabel was laid. 
 None thought of us, and we might stray 
 Unseen, untracked by night and day, 
 Through solitude and shade. 
 
87 
 
 And when from out his western tower 
 
 The star of eve illumed our bower. 
 
 We thought of many a glade, and glen. 
 
 Where that sweet light was shining then; 
 
 And oft mid birds of wildest tone 
 
 That filled the woods with songs unknown. 
 
 The cuckoo's well-remember'd lay 
 
 Told us of countries far away : 
 
 ' And wilt thou, Agnes,' said the youth, 
 
 * And wilt thou seek that land with me? 
 
 And plight to me the faith, the truth. 
 
 The love that I will plight to thee ? 
 
 Oh ! blessed maid ! yea, thou wilt be 
 
 A joy, a lovely mate to me; 
 
 And we will fellow pilgrims roam. 
 
 And God himself will guide us home; 
 
SIS 
 
 And many a summer-moon will bless 
 Our dreams of hope and happiness. 
 Be mine ! be only mine 1 for thou 
 Art all I seek, I look for, now ; 
 Be mine alone!' — My faith I gave 
 To him beside my sister's grave, 
 And we knelt there, and Heaven above 
 Bare witness to our pledge of love. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ** I miss*d him at the accustomed hour;- 
 
 The taper burnt within my tent; 
 And long I watch'd beside my bower, 
 And many an anxious look I bent: 
 Yet never sounding on my ear 
 Heard I the warrior's footsteps near; 
 
89 
 
 Or saw his giant shadow gleam. 
 Stretched long beneath the moonlight beam. 
 Or flashing through the shades of night, 
 His armour throw its radiance bright: 
 1 listened; but no friendly sound. 
 No well-known footstep pressed the ground; 
 But wild the yell that filled the air. 
 Of beast and bird, from nest and lair. 
 The pheasant on his night-perch crew. 
 On whirring wing the partridge flew: 
 Hoarse screamed the peacock in the brakes 
 The wild swan flapped along the lake ; 
 With streaming dewlap o*er the pool 
 The bison sought its covert cool ; 
 The wild boar in the caney mead 
 Champed loud and deep the ripen'd reed; 
 
90 
 
 And sounded down the distant slope 
 The bleating of the antelope» 
 XIII. 
 ** Day came, and still I saw him not,— 
 
 —Another and another day ;— 
 Till hope itself was lost. My lot 
 I mourned no more, but had forgot 
 The ills that on me lay. 
 For life, for death, for weal, for woe. 
 To me was all alike below : 
 She whom I loved was dead; and he 
 Who had my faith, was dead to me. 
 I deemed that pale and far away. 
 Gored by some hostile sword he lay, 
 And stretched beneath the greenwood tree. 
 Lay bleeding for his love and me : 
 
91 
 
 Nor knew I then by day and night 
 
 He marched his squadron's ambush*d fight, 
 
 And where the chief his battle led. 
 
 Far off by frith and forest sped ; 
 
 Where Latac lifts his summits hoar. 
 
 And flow the waves of Mansaror ; 
 
 Till far Cailasa's echoes gave 
 
 The Tartar shouts o*er Ganges wave; 
 
 And Kelasch's icey breezes fanned 
 
 The floating flag of Samarcand. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ** Amid that multitude alone. 
 In that huge camp of all bereft, 
 
 I lingered on, nor one would own 
 Her whom they deemed her God had left> 
 
92 
 
 No hand or knee was bent to prayer, 
 
 Man's weakness and his woes to mourn; 
 No chapel, shrine, or saint was there, 
 A Sabbathless sojourn. 
 But worse, far worse, than solitude 
 Was that fierce band untamed and rude; 
 And curses dark, and whisperings loud. 
 That reached me from the armed crowd; 
 And sullen threats that wished me dead, 
 And eyes that followed as I fled : 
 And hands that on the dagger laid. 
 Seemed waiting but night's gloomy shade. 
 With carnage reeks the lion*s den; 
 So reeked this dark abode of men : 
 Like the gaunt beast at close of day. 
 They rose to hunt their trembling prey. 
 
93 
 
 And flung their wearied limbs to rest 
 Along the leafy couch unblest. 
 No home, no household hearth had I, 
 No shade, no shelter but the sky ; 
 Beside his child no father wept. 
 Upon no mother's arm I slept; 
 No sisters watched my broken rest, 
 My pale cheek pillowing on their breast; 
 No brother's hand from scorn and shame 
 Was raised to save my injur'd name; 
 And not a prayer to Heaven was said. 
 To pour its mercy on my head. 
 
 XV. * 
 
 *« But then that dreaded night it came. 
 That slaked in blood its torch of flame; 
 
94 
 
 E*en in my lonely tent I heard 
 The strange unwonted sounds that stirred ; 
 Rung the shrill anvil on my ear ; 
 Anew was tried the sharpened spear; 
 With curb, and iron harness bound. 
 The steeds stood pawing on the ground; 
 And grasping each his charger's mane. 
 Full armed the horsemen prest the plain. 
 And stood as if in act to spring. 
 And waiting but the bugle's ring; 
 Struck were the tents, and left and right 
 Rode out the couriers through the night: 
 I sat and listen'd, as aloof 
 Died on my ear the thundering hoof. 
 Or caught the watch- word as it went. 
 In louder cry from tent to tent. 
 
95 
 
 XVI. 
 
 *' But oh! that shout, that murderous call. 
 That rose on Delhi's captive wall, 
 
 What tongue could e'er have told; 
 When swarming over trench and tower. 
 Dark flew the javelin's iron shower. 
 And Scythian standard rolled. 
 And in the silence of the noon, . 
 Yelled the loud cry, ' Suriin, Surunl' 
 And that huge trumpet Kerennay, 
 Roared heavy at the close of day. 
 'Twas when that trumpet's hideous blair. 
 Seemed as it rent the shaken air. 
 And drowned the victor's panting breath. 
 And hushed the shriller screams of death ; 
 
96 
 
 Some armed angel by tlie hand 
 Led me through each conflicting band; 
 For fast and thick the wildfire ran 
 0*er beacon and o'er barbican; 
 And as the flaming deluge glared. 
 Grimly e^ch shadowy warrior stared. 
 And black as clouds the banners flew 
 In that red air of blazing hue, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ** Then pale and sick I hurried by. 
 And urged my snorting steed to fly ; 
 0*er heaps of dying and of dead. 
 
 The affrighted courser fled amain; 
 Borne by -tj^ tempest o'er our head. 
 
 The fire-flakes crackled on the plain: 
 
97 
 
 And many a wounded wretch I passed. 
 
 Whose mangled limbs were scorcht and torn. 
 
 And many a mother hurrying fast 
 To save the babe was newly born. 
 I saw the mother and the child 
 Sink down amid that pathless wild, 
 Till faint and weak, and far behind. 
 Their voices died along the wind. 
 Yet ere my courser passed away 
 I heard the tiger churn his prey; 
 And in the stoney moat that bound 
 With darken*d wave the turrets round. 
 Loud roared the crocodile for blood. 
 And shook in rage the seething flood. 
 And gnashed his jaws, when o*er the stream 
 Rose the poor victim's dying scream : 
 
98 
 
 And slowly as he sailed to sleep 
 Within the forest's shelter deep. 
 From the gorged vulture's talons fell 
 The blood drops down the grassy dell, 
 XVIII. 
 *' Bethink thee what it was to me 
 Such scenes of pain and death to see ; 
 I shook at every footstep near^ 
 
 Left by that lawless camp alone; 
 I saw the midnight murderer, 
 
 I caught the hard and stifled groan. 
 Heedless I stood, benumbed with fear 
 I heard his lifted footsteps near, 
 I saw his hand the tent ropes draw. 
 The dagger gleaming in his vest: 
 No more I know, no more I saw. 
 Nor how that noble steed I prest; 
 
99 
 
 Till cold and dank the night wind blevr^ 
 My cheek was wet with rain and dew, 
 
 I woke like one from death: 
 Soldier nor Sentinel was there. 
 Nor challenge in the midnight air. 
 
 Nor trumpet's warning breath : 
 But all that night, till morning light. 
 
 Through glade and glen I urged my way; 
 For still the wind would bring behind 
 
 The dreadful blast of Kerennay. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Gloomy the morn arose and dark. 
 Ere I had gained this forest bound; 
 
 Nought but the chacaVs plaintive bark. 
 Or vulture's scream was heard around. 
 
100 
 
 And fast before the wind the rain 
 Drove hke a torrent down the plain: 
 Weary and faint my courser fell; 
 But then I gained this shelter'd dell. 
 And safe beneath the arched roof. 
 That spread its branches tempest proof. 
 
 Stood listening to the blast. 
 For now the storm had rolled away. 
 Between the clouds the brightening day 
 
 Bespoke the danger past. 
 I saw along the watery grass 
 With glittering light the sun gleams pass. 
 And on the amber clouds aloof 
 The rainbow hang its braided woof; 
 It seemed a thousand spirits flew 
 Along its arch of emerald hue. # I 
 
101 
 
 XX. 
 
 " From leaf to leaf the raindrops slipped^ 
 
 With slow and slower sound; 
 I stood and watched them as they dripped 
 
 And plashed upon the ground. 
 'Twas not those drops that on the leaf 
 
 Were glittering bright and fair, 
 It was the fixedness of grief 
 
 That held me gazing there. 
 'Twas then that weary, faint, and pale. 
 
 You found me stretch'd upon the ground ; 
 Mine is a sad and woeful tale ; 
 
 I look, and all around 
 Is strange, and dark, and drear to me; 
 And gladly I would be with, thee, 
 
102 
 
 In thy green bed in peace to dwell. 
 My poor, lamented Isabel !** 
 
 XXI. 
 
 She stopt.— .A gushing flood of tears 
 
 Came kindly to her aid; 
 The sad remembrance of her fears 
 
 Had wrought upon the maid; 
 Till all that scene of death and pain 
 Was pictur'd in her burning brain ; 
 And for the ancient hermit's cell. 
 
 Its mossy couch, and wicker lamp; 
 She heard the Scythian murderer's yell. 
 
 And saw dark Timur's iron camp; 
 And heard the midnight trumpets bray. 
 And shrill and deep the chargers neigh ; 
 
103 
 
 And saw amid the blazing air 
 From tent to tent the torches glare; 
 And floating o'er the bloody band 
 The standard sheet of Samarcand. 
 
104 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 So strolled along the woodland glade 
 The hermit, and that gentle maid ; 
 And now her mind, composed and calm. 
 Inhaled the evening's dewy balm; 
 Along the starry firmament 
 Her mild and pensive eye was bent; 
 And though her cheek was pale and white. 
 Like waters in the cold moonlight ; 
 And though the tear-drop glitter*d there. 
 Yet still she wore a gentler air; 
 Resigned and meek, like those who dwell 
 Within their convent's quiet cell. 
 
105 
 
 With whom the thoughts of humankind 
 Just stir, but not disturb the mind; 
 And life's strong lights and shadows seem 
 Soft as the visions of a dreum, 
 Or scenes of fairy bliss that pass 
 Along the wizard's magic glass. 
 H, 
 And yet that maiden's mind I deem 
 Admitted but one only theme, 
 And friends and country far away 
 
 Remember'd now no more; 
 Nor him who sought her night and day 
 
 On many a distant shore. 
 Yet wonder not, of Isabel 
 
 That faithful maiden thought alone. 
 For who a sister's loss can tell 
 
 But who a sister's love has known ? 
 
 F5 
 
106 
 
 The gentlest ties that nature wreathes 
 With kind affections round the mind; 
 
 The gentlest love that nature breathes 
 Its blessing to mankind. 
 Yet scorn not I the lover's fires, 
 The hallowed flame his torch inspired^ 
 The rays that light up beauty's eyes. 
 The soft infection of her sighs; 
 The thousand nameless charms unseen 
 That float around their beauteous queen. 
 And guard with fond, unerring haste 
 The golden cestus of the waist; 
 Sweet are they all, and dear to me,. 
 When the glad heart is firm and free: 
 But love in misery's bitter stream 
 
 Never his lip of laughter steeps ; 
 
107 
 
 Nor lights his torch by that pale beam 
 That gilds the urn where sorrow weeps. 
 
 III. 
 
 But you hare seen when, day by day. 
 The snow of winter fades away; 
 And lessening still when on its breast 
 The vernal gales^ their pinions rest; 
 And you have marked in evening sky 
 When the light shadows float on high; 
 And mild and pale the summer moon 
 Hangs like the feathery cloud offioon : 
 How each small spot of snowy hue 
 Melts in the dark expanse of blue. 
 And you have seen the primrose flower 
 Torn from its cool and pleasant shade; 
 
108 
 
 Droop in the mi(l-day*s sultry hour. 
 
 And hang its pallid leaves and fade. 
 And you have said, So fades away 
 The maid to hopeless love a prey ; 
 And like the snow, the clou*d^ the flower. 
 Glides fast, though sad, life's passing hour ; 
 And so was she, and such her fate 
 Who sate within the stranger's gate; 
 The bloom of youth was riveled quite. 
 The sun of hope had sunk in night. 
 And through her breast had passed the blow 
 That love and life at once laid low. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Long since each hope was gone, again 
 That she might tread her native plain ; 
 
109 
 
 Might kneel beside a inother*s bed. 
 And crave a blessing on her head ; 
 Might feel a father's fond caress. 
 And nurse his age in happiness ; 
 Remained one hope to sooth the mind. 
 That Ferdinand her cell would find. 
 Awhile the flame of life it fed. 
 And that one hope was almost dead. 
 Yet still when night and darkness came. 
 Far off the watch-fire flung its flame. 
 And from the smouldering pile of oak 
 Rose through the day the pillar'd smoke, 
 ** It might (would say the weeping maid) 
 Lure some poor wanderer to the shade ; 
 War-wearied, broken, glad to fling 
 His weak limbs by the fountain spring : 
 
no 
 
 And then, perchance, it might — '* But here 
 Stayed her faint words the gushing tear; 
 And ever did she seem to dread 
 To hear the very hopes she fed. 
 
 Rolled still their flame by night and day. 
 No wanderer blessed its friendly ray ; 
 No wearied footstep sounded near. 
 No midnight shout alarmed the ear ; 
 The mournful pair by day and night 
 Sate lonely at their watch-fire's light ; 
 Nor sound they heard but of the blast. 
 That blew its howling horn and past ; 
 Or pelican's wild shriek, who beat 
 His pennons thro* the midnight sleet ; 
 
Ill 
 
 Nor form they saw ; but where their hue 
 Of light the swarthy torches threw ; 
 Dark lay the shapes along the ground 
 Of the gaunt beasts that prowl'd around; 
 And bursting through the moonless shade* 
 Like stars the falling meteors played. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Wild was the spot as thought could frame. 
 The hill where rose their beacon-flame ; 
 From rock to rock the torrents flung 
 Their sheets of foam, that downward swung 
 As they would wake from slumber deep 
 The echoes on the mountain steep. 
 Nor tilth, nor fallow there were seen. 
 But wilderness and wild woodgreen ; 
 
112 
 
 The palm in one thick mass had spread 
 Below its venerable head. 
 And gleaming through its ancient bower 
 Shone the tall mosque and ivied tower : 
 On whose high top, full gorged with prey, 
 Slept the dark vulture thro' the day. 
 Silent .and calm the glassy lake 
 Spread its broad mirror in the brake ; 
 And you might see beneath its stream 
 The rock with deepening shadow gleam. 
 As some huge beast was couching there 
 At watch within his watery lair ; 
 And farther on from side to side 
 Stretched the long desart wild and wide ; 
 Till towering in the hazy air 
 Rolled the volcano's fiery glare. 
 
113 
 
 And o*er the farthest mountains broke 
 In storm, and thunder cloud, and smoke. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet one hope more.— With staff in hand. 
 As palmer from the Holy Land, ' 
 When morn its slanting beams had spread. 
 Like silver on the mountain head. 
 His path the ancient hermit took, 
 Where with long curve the forest-brook. 
 Thro' winding glen and flowery nook. 
 
 Flowed down to Jemna's strand ; 
 And he (good angels be his guide) 
 May bring to his forsaken bride 
 
 Her own beloved Ferdinand I 
 
114 
 
 Twice now o*er hill, and bank, and streajn. 
 The fresh sun smote with yellow gleam ; 
 And twice its westering wheels had driven 
 Like flakes of flame along the heaven; 
 Through the dark woods had twinkled far 
 All night the little Cresset-star 
 
 That lit the hermit's cell ; 
 Her guiding lamp still Agnes fed, 
 And wakeful sate to catch the tread 
 
 Of footsteps down the delU 
 
 Vlll. 
 
 Oh, no I *tis not the leaves that sweep 
 
 In drifts along the glade, 
 'Tis not the boughs that on the steep 
 
 The forest-winds have swayed ; 
 
115 
 
 Nor is it now the forest-blast 
 That howls and dies away; 
 
 For hark ! again — it comes at last ; 
 
 'Tis he! — his long, long journey past. 
 His solitary way. 
 'Tis he ! — And does she fly to meet, 
 And kiss the aged wanderer's feet. 
 
 And press the sainted sod ? 
 Ah, no ! — she faints, she reels, and when 
 Her weak eye oped to lif? agen. 
 
 His cell alone the hermit trod. 
 She asked not; — but her steady eye 
 Seemed waiting the old man*s reply ; 
 She gaz'd on him, nor could he brook 
 To see that wild and withering look. 
 She spake not;-^and he feared to tell 
 The tale his silence told too well. 
 
116 
 
 IX. 
 
 '* Nay, I can bear it," said the maid, 
 
 ** Can bear thy mournful tale to hear; 
 And why art thou to tell afraid. 
 
 When I shall listen without fear ? 
 Thou found'st him not. — Nay, was it so ? 
 
 Then I will search the battle-plain; 
 Or did*st thou find him lying low. 
 
 My warrior in his beauty slain, 
 All gashed and gored ?" — " I found him not; 
 
 Nor lies he on the battle-field. 
 But on that foul accursed spot 
 
 Lies many a youth beside his shield. 
 And wild and loud the tempest there 
 Is moaning through their lifted hair. 
 
117 
 
 Nor sod, nor stone, from wind or wave, 
 Defends the warrior's lonely grave. 
 
 ** Yon streamlet's shelving banks I paced, 
 That through green wood, and wild, and waste. 
 
 Draws on its serpent train ; 
 Then straight as falcon's flight I made 
 My onward path through sun and shade 
 
 The river bounds to gain. 
 Far on the lingering waters sped 
 Unseen beneath their woody bed ; 
 From bank to bank the cedars hung, 
 (Athwart the stream their dark hair flung) ; 
 And many a golden orange-grove 
 Gleamed beauteous in the watery cove. 
 
118 
 
 Beneath whose safe and sheltering bower 
 Blossomed the little desart flower ; 
 Till wider still the blue wave rolled. 
 And brighter stretched the sands of gold. 
 And o'er reed-bank and oozy shore 
 Screamed the wild Tern and Albicore. 
 By rock and rampart sped I on. 
 
 And heard far off the watchman call. 
 Nor stayed till Delhi's gates I won. 
 
 And crossed unseen the moated wall. 
 The warder's shout to me was nought. 
 
 And nought the trumpet's warring blast. 
 For only Ferdinand I sought. 
 
 And fearless through the war-camp past. 
 
 1 
 
119 
 
 XI. 
 
 '' I asked of all.— * 'Tis he, I seek. 
 
 The warrior with the golden cross ; 
 Lives he so manly, yet so meek. 
 
 And know ye of his life or loss ? 
 'Tis he so beautiful and bold. 
 
 He sate within your monarch's hall ; 
 And he was loved of young and old. 
 
 And know ye of his fate or fall?* 
 In vain — not one his fate could tell. 
 
 They bade me seek him midst the dead 
 He lies perchance in yonder dell. 
 
 For there the raven long has fed. 
 A mournful sight. — For all around 
 The blood of warriors dyed the ground ; 
 
120 
 
 And I through day and night did tread 
 My slippery pathway through the dead ; 
 And though full many a day had passed 
 Since the glazed eyeball gazed its last ; 
 And though full many a night had rolled. 
 And bleached them in the moonbeam cold; 
 Yet as along the deathly plain 
 I bent upon the heaps of slain. 
 In each low wind I seemed to hear 
 Strange dying sounds that smote my ear, 
 I shook, as still I seemed to grasp 
 The dying man's convulsive clasp ; 
 Yet never found I there the grave 
 Of him, the beautiful and brave." 
 
XII. 
 
 Where one small spot of greensward lay, 
 
 Close sheltered by the brake ; 
 There shone a little inland bay. 
 That well had tempted faun or fay 
 
 Their pastime there to take ; 
 And sing their jocund roundelay 
 Beneath the cypress of the lake. 
 For there the mountain wild bee flew. 
 And dipt his filmy wing in dew ; 
 The blue liana floated there. 
 Its broider'd banners hung in air. 
 Along the quivering waters played 
 The dark Varinga's pensile shade. 
 And broad and cool the tamarind's head. 
 Its crown of tassel'd leaflets spread, 
 
 o 
 
122 
 
 While fresh the scent which o'er the wave 
 In sun and shower the pine-grove gave ; 
 Yet sad was all, and mournful there ; 
 — The tawny leaf that in the air 
 
 Its dying odours flung; 
 And rent by autumn blasts, and bare. 
 Lay many a withered bough, that fair 
 
 Beneath the spring had hung. 
 XIIL 
 No joy had Agnes but to rove 
 At will within this darksome grove. 
 From morn to eve to wander free. 
 Her food the wild fruit from the tree^ 
 Or gaze upon the lake's wide breast 
 When all its waters were at rest ; 
 Till in the mirror broad and blue 
 Would fancy paint her scenes anew. 
 
V23 
 
 Her own dear hills, her native shade. 
 The wild wood cot where once she strayed ; 
 The forest grange, the ivied tower. 
 The hawthorn in her sheltering bower ; 
 And peering o'er the forest tall. 
 The pinnetts on her castle wall ; 
 And many a home-scene, such as brought 
 The pensive tear that followed thought. 
 So gleams to him whose fever'd blood 
 Boils hot amidst the tropic flood ; 
 The long savannah spreading cool. 
 The sparry grot, the fresh* ning pool ; 
 And flowery meads and valleys green 
 A mid the skiey mirhage seen ; 
 And long woods trending far away. 
 And elmy grove and oaken spray; 
 
124 
 
 And shadowy spectres seen to sail 
 With giant step from vale to vale, 
 XIV. 
 And ever as she gazed, I ween. 
 
 The tear adown her pale cheek fell ; 
 And fixed and ghastly was her mien. 
 Like one who death itself had seen. 
 And hard, each falling tear between. 
 Would rise her bosom's swell. 
 For stronger still within the stream 
 She saw those watery visions gleam. 
 Unearthed forms that seemed to glide 
 Like fiends beneath the passing tide, . 
 Then from her outstretch'd arms they flew. 
 And mocked her straining eyebalVs view. 
 An old man there she saw, who tore 
 With frantic hand his tresses hear ; 
 
125 
 
 And smote his breast, when through the gate 
 Childless he passed and desolate ; 
 And one who on the bed of death 
 Lay pale and gasp'd for life and breath, 
 Yet on her weak and faltering tongue, 
 Half heard the name of Agnes hung ; 
 Then o'er the silent threshold last 
 A slow and sable hearsement past. 
 
 XV. 
 
 It fled away» — A female band 
 Moved gaily o'er the yellow strand. 
 
 With harp, and pipe, and minstrelsy ; 
 And she was in that troop so fair, 
 With gem and garland on her hair, 
 
 As well a bride might he. 
 
126 
 
 Hand locked in hand, she led the youth 
 To whom she plighted faith and truth ; 
 And they within the blossomed bower, 
 In love sped fast the noontide hour. 
 
 What more has life than this to give ? 
 When both possessing and possest. 
 We sleep upon our true love's breast. 
 
 It is indeed to live. 
 But, lo! along the bloody clay 
 In armour clad a warrior lay. 
 His helm and hauberk hewn away. 
 
 His gashed targe at his side ; 
 She stooped; she kneeled upon the ground 
 To bathe his wide and gaping wound ; 
 Oh ! mercy, Heaven ! herself she found 
 The dying warrior's bride. 
 
XVI. 
 
 It fled. — And o'er the troubled stream 
 
 The tempest swept along; 
 Yet, hark ! her wild convulsive scream ! 
 For still beneath the lightning's gleam 
 That ghastly vision hung. 
 And groans and dying shrieks were there, 
 And voices mocked her in the air. 
 
 And spectred shapes would flit around ; 
 And when along the storm they fled. 
 Stretched cold and pale as are the dead. 
 She sank upon the ground. 
 XVII. 
 Yet not for ever could it last. 
 
 This load of anguish and of pain ; 
 Beneath time's gentle healing past 
 The fever of the brain. 
 
128 
 
 And now one clear and steady ray 
 Was beaming on life's closing day. 
 
 Soft as the dewy" lights of eve ; 
 When past the storm, and once again 
 The sun-gleams o'er the yellow plain, 
 
 Their dying lustre leave^ 
 No backward look did Agnes cast. 
 No sigh, no wish that mourned the past. 
 
 No tear that flowed for pleasures gone ; 
 But mild and meek she kneeled to share 
 Duly the hermit's evening prayer. 
 Or in the wild and woodland glade. 
 Beneath the hallowed cross she paid 
 
 The orisons of morn. 
 And well that man of holy life , 
 To her would paint our mortal strife. 
 
129 
 
 The toils, and tears, and agonies ; 
 And cares that gnaw the heart, and sin 
 That taints the secret man within. 
 
 And blasts him ere he dies. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 *' But happy thou to whom is given 
 So soon the heritage of heaven, 
 
 From this bad world so soon to fly :'* 
 And then with clasped hand he prayed 
 That God would guide the blessed maid 
 
 In sickness and in misery. 
 " And thou shalt meet in that far land 
 Thine own beloved Ferdinand, 
 
 G5 
 
130 
 
 Nor ever part again; 
 For when thou art no longer near. 
 How would he bear to linger here. 
 This world a prison dark and drear. 
 
 Of punishment and pain ! 
 He will be there. — Nay, do not weep,^^ 
 For life is but a darkened sleep. 
 
 We travellers thro* a lonesome dell ; 
 Aiid thou, ere many a day, shall press. 
 Once more in health and happiness. 
 
 Thy poor, forsaken Isabel. 
 — " And thou" — ■" No, not," he cried, " for me 
 Is it such blessed sight to see, 
 For long my penance here must be 
 
131 
 
 Midst wickedaess and woe. 
 Yet blest to think, that far above 
 Thou bendest down one look of love 
 
 On him who dwells below.'* 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " A seraph thou ! — and she who died, 
 Faint and forsaken by thy side. 
 
 Her branch of palm shall bear.** 
 —He turned ; but stretched upon the clay. 
 Lifeless and pale the maiden lay, 
 And one who still her cold cheek prest. 
 And clasped her fainting to his breast. 
 
 In warrior weeds was there, 
 <* Awake ! my poor, forsaken one 1" 
 He cried, " our days of grief are done. 
 
133 
 
 And we have met again; 
 Awake ! long lost, and found at last. 
 My Agnes ! for our days are past 
 
 Of penance and of pain. 
 •Tis Ferdinand'who calls. — Thine own. 
 Who lives, who breathes for thee alone. 
 
 Loved above all that earth can give ; 
 Awake, my best beloved ! my bride ! 
 My heart's first hope! my joy, my pride. 
 
 Awake for me, and live ! 
 Oh ! turn thee once again to me. 
 And thou, oh God ! a shelter be 
 To shadow this poor myrtle tree !'* 
 
 XX. 
 
 The voice of love, it cannot save 
 The dying from their doom; 
 
133 
 
 Nor can the torch of love the grave 
 
 With living light illume ; 
 Nor love himself, a spirit brave, 
 
 Pass fearless thro' the tomb. 
 But he has power to stay the breath 
 
 One moment from its flight; 
 Ere yet the uplifted arm of death 
 
 Descends to grasp its right. 
 And once again, on Agnes ear. 
 Came that known voice so loved and dear> 
 
 So loved, and lost so long ; 
 It came with healing and with hope, 
 Her languid eyelids seemed to ope. 
 
 Her heart to beat its pulses strong. 
 It came in life's departing hour, 
 —A sunbeam on the blasted flower; 
 
134 
 
 A star upon the shipwrecVd shore; 
 It came — ^but oh ! to save no more. 
 And yet that voice to her did seem 
 As she had heard it in a dream ; 
 That form as shadowy shapes that fly 
 In visions o'er the musing eye. 
 For faint she was, and weak, and worn. 
 By sickness and by sorrow torn; 
 And she had learned long since to part 
 With hopes that lean upon the heart. 
 
 So fondly as their stay; 
 Nor dared she now to think that Heaven 
 Had so much of its mercy given 
 
 To gild her dying day. 
 
135 
 
 XXI. 
 
 ** I would have seen you ere 1 died. 
 My gentle Ferdinand/' she cried; 
 " And morn and even I did pray. 
 That hence I might not pass away 
 
 Unseen, unblest by thee. 
 'Twas heard : — no wish remained behind, 
 But oh ! how merciful and kind 
 
 I own Heaven is to me ! 
 Yet something I would speak : when I 
 Beneath my grave of turf shall lie. 
 This aged man, who even now 
 For me bends down his sorrowing brow. 
 You will not leave him, Ferdinand, 
 
 To tears and toil a prey; 
 
136 
 
 But you a staff beside him stand. 
 Child of his age, at his right hand^ 
 
 When I am far away. 
 A father he has been to me; 
 
 To me a mother's love has shown; 
 What I have been, so thou shalt be. 
 And his few grey hairs quietly 
 
 Shall to the grave go down." 
 XXIL 
 She paused. — " Yet somewhat have I more 
 To say. — When to your native shore 
 
 You shall return, though late; 
 By all our love, by all to thee 
 I am, by all I hoped to be. 
 Forget not those who now for me 
 
 Are weeping old and desolate, 
 
137 
 
 And thou this sad, sad story tell. 
 But yet of our poor Isabel 
 
 Some little portion hide; 
 And say in peace she breathed her last, 
 And that her painful sufferings past, 
 
 She blessed them ere she died/' 
 And now his hand that hers had clasped 
 
 She gently to her bosom drew; 
 " This last sad pledge of love" — she gasped 
 
 For breath awhile — " to give to you 
 Repiains — 'tis all I can bestow." 
 And closer now his hand she prest ; 
 — ** This one cold kiss!'* — and on his breast 
 
 She sank, a wreath of snow. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Page 2. — Pine*s low song- like whisper, 
 dyKi ^oLp dvTujy, 
 'T^ujp isvocov >^ia^(ryjs Siro ifv^i^svoc itki'pri^, 
 
 Orpheus. Lap. vs. 70, 
 
 Page S.^—Camghul. 
 " At the same time Timur built a magnificent 
 palace in the midst of the garden called Baghi- 
 Dilensha (the garden which rejoices the heart), 
 
140 
 
 just then finished in the plain of Khani Gheul, with- 
 out Samarkant, and gave it the name of his new 
 mistress. The ceilings were adorned with flowers 
 in mosaic work, and the walls covered with porce- 
 lain of Kashan.*' — Mod. Un. Hist. 5. 2Q/. 
 
 Page 6. — Lion heart, 
 
 TyrtSEus. ed. Brunck. 1. 53. xi. 
 Page 7* — Would smite his staff, 
 
 *'Etiytpov^aLV'i'oLS 'Arpk^af 
 Adiycpv ^Ti Karaor^hv, 
 
 ^schyl. Agam. v. 210. 
 
 Page 1 8. — And nostril true. 
 Timur after this took the diversion of a grand 
 
 hunting in the plains of Akham, beyond the Arr^e^ 
 
141 
 
 in which, besides dogs, were employed leopards 
 with gold chains, swift greyhounds of Greece, and 
 uncommon beagles; but what were most remarkable, 
 huge European mastiffs, as strong as African lions, 
 terrible as enraged tigers, and swift as arrows. — See 
 the Modern Universal History, vol. 5, p. 357. 
 
 " The emperor continued at Samarkand, where he 
 found good hunting. He greatly loved these honest 
 exercises, the which kept him (as he said) in breath, 
 that he should not find his arms straunge unto him.'* 
 — Life of Timur by Messire Jean du Bee, abbot of 
 Mortimer, p. 231. 
 
 Page 18. — SoldarCs coward pride. 
 The conquest of Delhi is thus related by Timur 
 himself in his Institutes, published by Major Davy^ 
 p. 139. 
 
14^ 
 
 *' Sooltaun Mahmood and Mulloo Khaun, with 
 fifty thousand men, horsemen and footmen^ and one 
 hundred and twenty elephants, made strong the 
 castle of Delhi, and prepared to oppose me. And 
 it came into my mind, that if I should resolve on 
 subduing the castle of Delhi, perhaps the war might 
 be long and tedious. And I counselled with my- 
 self, that I would make myself appear weak in their 
 sight, that the enemy might gain courage, and 
 come and fight with me in the plain. And on this 
 account I dug a ditch round my army, and I 
 strengthened myself within that ditch, and I sent a 
 force to meet them ; and I commanded my soldiers 
 that they should shew themselves weak and fearful, 
 that they might give courage to the enemy. And 
 when the enemy found themselves powerful they 
 
14.3 
 
 exulted; and they came into the plain, and they 
 opposed my victorious armies face to face. And 
 sooltaun Mahmood, the ruler of Delhi, came into 
 battle, and was defeated; and he fled towards the 
 mountains, and spoils and wealth above measure,, 
 in money and in effects, fell to the lot of my soldiers. 
 And in the space of one year I conquered the chief 
 city of Hind ; and at the end of the same year I 
 returned toward the imperial city of Summurkund.'* 
 
 Page 21. — Ounce, 
 '' When the ounce has missed his prey, to com- 
 fort him the huntsmen tell one another aloud that 
 he hath not seen it; and that if he had seen it he 
 would not have missed: believing that he under- 
 stands the compliment very clearly." Thevenot*s 
 Travels, part ii. p. 105. 
 
144 
 
 As the ounce understands a compliment, so, Mr. 
 Barrow informs us, the elephant-hunters believe 
 the elephant to comprehend an insult; when, as they 
 wheel round him they cry out, " I slew your grand- 
 father, and I slew your father, and you are but a 
 fool to them *." 
 
 Page 22. — Tor the tiger's roused, 
 ** Wherever tigers roam, or crouch, a number of 
 
 birds continually collect, or hover about them, 
 
 screaming and crying as if to create an alarm. But 
 
 the peacock seems to be particularly allured by him; 
 
 for the instant that a flock of pea-fov/1 perceive him, 
 
 • Was it not the Lady Mr.yoress of Vaucluse, who, as she 
 drove the bees away with her ha.idkerchicf, cried out, " 2uand 
 on les chasse comme ca, ces pauvres b^tes ne sont jamais 
 niechantes. Mais si on leur dise des sottises, oh! alors c'est 
 bien autre chose, alors elles deviennent mechantes comme le 
 diable?" 
 
145 
 
 they advance towards him directly, and begin strut- 
 ting round him with wings fluttering, quivering 
 feathers, and bristling and expanded tails. It may 
 be thought strange that wild peacocks and tigers 
 should frequently be found in the same haunts; 
 not that there is the slightest connexion or affinity 
 between them, but that the same desolate, wild, 
 woody parts among the mountains seem to suit 
 each. In going out, therefore, to shoot the former 
 it is necessary to go pretty strong, both in numbers 
 and arms, to be guarded against the latter." See 
 Struggles through Life by Lieut. John Harriott, 
 vol. i. p. l6l. 
 
 Page 22. — So they with sabre. 
 An account of the hunting of the native Indian 
 princes may be seen in Pennant's Outlines of the 
 
 H 
 
146 
 
 Globe, vol. ii. p. 2 43. They have generally about 
 three hundred greyhounds, two hundred hawks, 
 and trained leopards, five hundred elephants; and 
 the camp does not fall short of twenty thousand 
 men. The manner of sporting by the English in 
 Bengal, communicated by Colonel Ironside, may be 
 found in the Asiatic Annual Register for 1801; a 
 memorandum also respecting the hunting establish- 
 ment of Tippoo Sultauu at Seringapatam is in 
 Tilloch*s Philosophical Magazine, vol. x. p. 1^3. 
 " Sherefeddin,** says Gibbon, in the Decline and 
 Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. vi. p. 326, (Hist, 
 de Tim. Bee. v. c. 13.) '* allows Bajazet a round 
 number of twelve thousand officers and servants of 
 the chase. A part of his spoils was afterwards dis- 
 played in a hunting match of Timour. 1st. Hounds 
 
147 
 
 with satin housings. 2dl)r* Leopards with collars 
 set with jewels. 3dly. Grecian greyhounds. 4thly. 
 Dogs from Europe, as strong as African lions. 
 Bajazet was particularly fond of flying his hawks at 
 cranes." See Chalcondylas, vol. ii. p. 35. 
 
 Page 23. — The crested heron. 
 For the various kinds of herons of India, the 
 great heron, the lohaugung heron, and the violet 
 heron, which is esteemed good eating, and the ob- 
 ject of falconry, see Pennant's Outlines, vol. ii. 
 p. 157. The argali, or adjutant, or gigantic heron, 
 is five feet high: in Bengal it finishes the work 
 begun by the vulture and jackall. These clear the 
 carcase of animals from the flesh, and the herons 
 remove the nuisances of the bones by swallowing 
 them entire. Ditto, vol. ii. 157, 
 
148 
 
 Page 24. — The charger^ s neigh, 
 
 " ad lituos hilarem, trepidumque tubarum 
 
 Prospiciebat equum/* Stat. Theb. x. v. 325. 
 
 Page 27. — Swincht buffalo. 
 Besides the buffalo, one of the fiercest animals of 
 the ox kind, is the bos arnee of Mr. Ker, described 
 in his second volume of the Animal Kingdom, p. 
 747. Mr. Pennant says, " I have seen only the 
 horns, which were in possession of Sir Joseph 
 Banks. They were incurvated in the exact form of 
 a ci^scent, and stood upright on the animal's head. 
 I forget their length, but think that it was between 
 two pr three feet; but I never shall forget that of 
 the whole animal, which was met in a wood of the 
 country above Bengal by a British officer, who in- 
 forms us that from the tip of the horns to the ground 
 
149 
 
 it must have been fourteen feet. Quale portentum 
 neque militaris, &c. It partook of the form of the 
 horse, bull, and deer, and was very bold and daring. 
 
 Page 29. — Of Georgia s bowers, 
 " When Timur invaded Georgia news was brought 
 
 him of the birth of his grandson, prince Ibrahim 
 Soltan. He encamped on the plain of Menik Gheul, 
 a village in Georgia. On this occasion a splendid 
 banquet was prepared: the tents took up two 
 leagues of ground. Timur*s was under a canopy- 
 sustained by forty pillars, and as spacious as a 
 palace. When every thing was ready, his majesty 
 came with the crown on his head, and sceptre 
 in his hand, and sat on the throne; and a great 
 number of the most beautiful ladies of Asia sat on 
 each side, with veils of rich brocade, bedecked with 
 
150 
 
 jewels. Nine chaush, as stewards with golden wands 
 in their hands, marched before the dishes, which 
 were served up. They were followed by cup-bearers, 
 having in their hands crystal bottles, and golden 
 cups with red wine of Schir&z, white of Mazander^n, 
 grey- coloured of Kosrw&n, and water exceedingly 
 clear. Nor did the conversation of charming women, 
 whose hair hung in tresses to the very ground, add 
 a small lustre to this grand assembly, at which were 
 present many foreign lords, and princes from India 
 and Greece." Mod. Univ. Hist, vol. v. p. 285. 
 
 Page 32. — The red rocket, 
 
 " The word used in the Gen too code of laws is 
 
 agnee-aster, or weapons of fire : by this can only be 
 
 intended war-rockets and fire-arrows : the first are 
 
 dreadful. They are carried by a particular body of 
 
151 
 
 men called rocket-men, and are flung chiefly among 
 the bodies of the enemy's cavalry. They burst like 
 hand-grenadoes,and make great havoc k. The rocket 
 consists of a tube of iron about eight inches long, and 
 an inch and an half in diameter, and closed at one 
 end. It is filled with powder, like the common 
 rocket, and fastened to a piece of bamboo four feet 
 long, pointed with iron. Near the open end is a 
 match, which is fired before it is flung. (See the 
 Sketches ofthe Hindoos by R.Crawford, esq.) These 
 rockets act with great force, for I have heard of one 
 that passed through the body of a bullock, and after- 
 wards killed a man*. Fire-arrows are used either 
 to burn shipping or to set fire to besieged towns: 
 
 • Et formidandas non un& morte sagittse. 
 
 Stat. Theb. 8.418. 
 
152 
 
 these were frequently used in Europefrom early times. 
 Those in India were discharged from a bamboo. 
 After they had flown a certain way, they divided 
 into several different darts, or streams of fire, each 
 of which took effect, and could not be extinguished. 
 This species is now lost, but was known in the wars 
 between the Saracens and the Grecian empire. Le 
 feu Gregois, or the Greek fire, was the destruction 
 of the Saracenic fleet before Constantinople in 7 IS. 
 It was missile, and discharged several ways, some 
 of which were by darts or javelins." Pennant's Out- 
 lines, ii. 364*. 
 
 Page 33. — With bow and buckler. 
 In the Institutes of Timur tlie regulations con- 
 cerning the arms and the necessaries of the soldiers 
 are given, p. 293, *' For the private soldiers I or- 
 
 * See also Hamilton's East Indies, vol. ii. p. 56. 
 
153 
 
 dained that on an expedition every eighteen men 
 should take one tent; and that each man should be 
 supplied with two horses, and with a bow, and with 
 a quiver of arrows, and with a sword, and with a 
 saw, and with an axe, and with an awl, and with 
 thread, and with ten needles, and with a leathern 
 knapsack. And for the select warriors, that every 
 five men should have one tent, and that each man 
 should take with him a skull-cap, and a breastplate, 
 and a sword, and a bow, and a quiver of arrows : 
 and that each of the Ounbaushees should have with 
 him one tent, and a coat of mail, and a sword, and 
 a bow, and a quiver, and five horses: and that every 
 Euzbaushee should have one tent and ten horses, 
 and his arms, such as the sword, and the bow, and 
 the quiver, and the mace, and the club, and the 
 
 h5 
 
154 
 
 coat of mail, and the breastplate/' Vests of cotton 
 were often worn, as being lighter than iron armour, 
 by the soldiers of the east. Timur, however, de- 
 scribes himself as armed in a stronger manner, 
 " And I determined (says he) on that measure 
 which was agreeable to my soldiers ; and I placed 
 a helmet of steel on my head, and I clothed myself 
 in the armour of Dauood, and I hung a cimeter of 
 Missur by my side, and I sat on the throne of war," 
 p. 143. This armour of Dauood, or David, was 
 given to Timur by Ipocrates the Christian king of 
 Georgia; he pretended that David the king of 
 Israel had forged it with his own hands in a smith's 
 shop. Histoire de Timur, Bee. vol. i. p. 400. An 
 account of the arms of the Moguls may be seen in 
 Thevenot's Travels, Part iii. c. 23. ^ 
 
155 
 
 Page 34. — Huge beasts. 
 When Timur asked counsel of his sons ana 
 ameers whether he should go to reduce the empire 
 of Hindoostan, the Prince Mahummed Sooltan 
 spoke, saying, " We may subdue Hind, yet Uin* 
 dostaun hath many ramparts ; first the rivers ; 
 and secondly, the wildernesses and the forests ; 
 and thirdly, the soldiers clad in armour; and 
 fourthly, the elephant s^ the destroyers of men,'* 
 p. 129. At the siege of Delhi the army of Timur 
 was much discouraged at the idea of being opposed 
 to elephants, which they had never seen before : and 
 in which the sultan's army chiefly trusted. At the 
 close of the battle, however, Timur enjoyed the 
 triumph of having one of them, which the soldiers 
 had hampered, brought before him : of the rest he 
 
156 
 
 became master when he entered Delhi, According 
 to Pennant, the elephant is becoming of great im- 
 portance to the English armies in India, The 
 former disuse of him arising from a notion that he 
 would require great care and expence in feeding, 
 which is so far from being the case that he will 
 subsist on what the horse and ox refuse to eat. The 
 strength of the elephant in draught Pennant 
 reckons, I think, equal to that of sixteen bullocks. 
 
 Page 42. — Wild crane, 
 *'^0n the way from Tenedos we were amused by 
 
 vast caravans or companies of cranes passing high in 
 the air, to winter, as we supposed, in Egypt. We ad- 
 mired the number and variety of their squadrons, 
 their extent, orderly array, and apparently good dis- 
 cipline." Chandler's Travels in Asia, p. 22, 4to. At 
 p. 81, he says, " The cranes flew in orderly arrange- 
 
157 
 
 ment over Smyrna, on the 9th of March, northward; 
 some by moonlight, when they were heard high in 
 air repeating their noisy signals." Sonnini, 1, I94, 
 says, '' The cranes directing their course to Egypt 
 passed over our heads. They flew at so great an 
 height, that although the sky was clear we scarcely 
 perceived them, though they made the air resound 
 with their cries. These birds pass from one coun- 
 try to another only in fine weather." 
 
 Page 5 1 . — The hyacinth, 
 
 Hiorardg ^opsov(ny sin Kpoirsar^iv eSsfpoc^. 
 
 Dionys. Perieg. V. 1112. 
 And so Avienus, v. 1510. 
 
 elHua semper 
 
 His coma liventes imitatur crine hyacinthos. 
 
158 
 
 In the hymn to Ceres, published as Homer's, v. 178, 
 the less usual simile of the crocus is adopted, 
 
 a/>t<}>\ di Kouroci 
 "Xi/>oo/; aWovro K/?©jc)j<a; avhi o/xoicM. 
 which is used also by Ovid, Art. Am. 1. 530. 
 
 — Croceas irreligata Comas. 
 
 Page 6l. — The huge pharos, 
 ** The ship glided on toward the shore almost in» 
 sensibly, until the land-breeze reached us, scented 
 with the delicious fragrance of odorous trees and 
 flowering shrubs. The night was still and clear. 
 The moon in its wane gleamed over the waves and 
 mountains. The coast was spangled with lights 
 from the houses, which were overtopped by that of 
 the pharos. We could distinctly hear at intervals 
 the bells of the churches and convents, which 
 
159 
 
 siounded sweetly, soft, and pensive." — Chandler's 
 Travels in Asia, p. 6, describing his entering the 
 bay of Genoa. 
 
 Page 61. — Chalice, 
 The custom of drawing water in the east belongs 
 to the women, and particularly to young women 
 who are single. The cool of the evening was the 
 season to procure a supply for the morrow. The 
 custom is of great antiquity. An instance occurs 
 in the writings of Moses, and in Homer not an- 
 frequently. A virgin, as the shepherds of the TroVa 
 sing, says Philostratus, going to fetch water from 
 the Scamander, saw the phantom of Antilochus by 
 moonlight, and fell in love with the beautiful sha- 
 dow. — For further illustrations of this custom, see 
 Horn. Odyss. vii. 20. x. 105. xx. 154. Shaw's Tra- 
 
160 
 
 vels, p. 241 ; and Dr. Henley's Notes on Vathek, 
 p. 304. 
 
 Page 72. — Single left. 
 Shah Mansour, prince of Fars, or the proper 
 
 Persia, was one of the least powerful but most 
 dangerous of Timur's enemies. In a battle under 
 the walls of Schiraz he broke with three or four 
 thousand soldiers the coal, or main body of thirty 
 thousand horse, where the emperor fought in per- 
 son: no more than fourteen or fifteen guards re- 
 mained near the standard of Timur. He stood firm 
 as a rock, and received on his helmet two weighty 
 strokes of a cimeter. — See Gibbon's Decline and 
 Fall, vi. 336. According to Arabshah, P. i. c. 28. 
 p. ] 83, the coward Timour ran away to his tent, 
 and hid himself from the pursuit of Shah Mansour 
 
161 
 
 under the women*s garments. Perhaps Sherefeddin, 
 iii. c. 25. has magnified his courage. 
 
 « Page 72. — Of thirty croiins, 
 
 "^At the age of thirty- four, and in a general delt, 
 or couroultai, Timur was invested with imperial 
 command : but he affected to reverse the house of 
 Zingis ; and while the Emir Timur reigned over 
 Zagatai and the east, a nominal khan served as a 
 private officer in the armies of his servant. A fertile 
 kingdom, five hundred miles in length and breadth, 
 might have satisfied the ambition of a subject ; but 
 Timur aspired to the dominion of the world: and 
 before his death the crown of Zagatai was one of the 
 twenty-seven crowns which he had placed on his 
 head." — See Gibbon, vi. p. 335. 
 
162 
 
 Page 76. — A throstle, 
 •* The chanting thrush inhabits the southern parts 
 of China ; is said to be the only bird in that vast 
 empire that has any thing like a song.** Pennant's 
 Faunula of China, V. iii. p. \gg. 
 
 Page 82. — My never, 
 " Minever (says Mr. Gifford in his excellent edi- 
 tion of Massinger, vol. iv. p. Ql.) as I learn from Cot- 
 grave, is the fur of the ermine mixed with that of the 
 small wesel." The truth is, the minever is the stoat 
 in the white coat, which he assumes in winter. In 
 more northern countries, where he is always white, 
 he is called the ermine. The word minever is per- 
 fectly familiar to the common people in the eastern 
 part of the kingdom. An accurate representation of 
 
163 
 
 one may be seen in the spirited plate which forms 
 the frontispiece to Pennant's Arctic Zoology, 4to. 
 
 Page 87- — Cuckooes lay. 
 The English cuckoo migrates to Bengal ; it is 
 
 observable out of the multitudes of cuckoos that 
 none have the note of the European, ( See Pennant's 
 Outlines, vol. ii. p. 264.) It is the skoefteri of the mo- 
 dern Greeks, and is called trigono kracti, as it is 
 supposed to be the leader of the turtles, one of thena 
 passing into the islands with the turtle flocks. In 
 Greece it is observed not to be a solitary bird. Son- 
 nini says that it does not sing there. 
 
 Page 85. — Whom in the waters wild. 
 Lancelot du Lac : and Tristan le L^onnois, who 
 
 loved * Yseult la blonde,' daughter of Argius king 
 
 of Ireland. See '< Tables G^n^alogique^ des Heros 
 
164 
 
 <Jes Romans, par Mons. Dutens," p. 17. See also 
 Mr. Scotfs Supplement to Sir Tristrem, p. 200. 
 ** On Tristreme's bere 
 Doun con sche lye. 
 Rise ogayn did sche nere ; 
 But tbare con sche dye 
 
 For woe; — 
 Swiche lovers als thei 
 Never schal be moe.'* 
 Tristrem's dying speech in the French metrical 
 fragment is very beautiful. 
 
 * -jt * * * * 
 
 " Je ne puis plus tenir ma vie, 
 Pur vus muers Ysolt, bele amie! 
 N'aver pite de ma langur, 
 Maii de ma mort aurez dolur! 
 
163 
 
 Co mest m'amie, grant confert. 
 Que pite aurir de ma ment ! 
 « Amie Ysolt!' trei fez dit, 
 A la quarte, rend Tesprit.*' 
 
 Page 97- — The crocodile. 
 The houses in Pegu were built with bamboo. The 
 town was surrounded with walls and a d«ep wet 
 ditch, stocked with crocodiles, to prevent people 
 attempting to get in or out of it by swimming or 
 wading. Pennant's Outlines, vol. iii, p. 13. 
 
 Page 121. — Vamiga, 
 The ' ficus religiosa,' or banian tree, — See Mr, 
 
 W. Daniel's beautiful print in Wood's Zoogra- 
 phy, V. iii. p. 311, and the still more beautiful de- 
 scription in the ^ Curse of Kehama,' c. 13. st. 5. by 
 one to whom the Muse of poetry and history is 
 doubly indebted. 
 
166 
 
 Omnia namque anlmo complcxus, et omnibus 
 
 auctor, 
 Qua fandi vis lata patet; sive orsa libebat 
 Aoniis vincere mod is, seu voce solut4 
 Spargere, et efFreno Ninibos aequare profatu. 
 
 Stat. Svlv. 5. in. iOO. 
 
ODES. 
 
ODE TO SOPHOCLES. 
 
 Oh, magic king ! whose voice severe 
 
 The coy, reluctant Muse can sway. 
 When on the Bard's enraptur*d ear 
 She pours her deeply-thrilling lay; 
 Great monarch of the spell sublime. 
 That smooths the ruffled plume of Time, 
 And from thy bright immortal bowers 
 His scythe adorns with fairy flowers ; 
 I 
 
170 
 
 Oh ! say, has e'er thy loved domain 
 To more enchanting cadence rung. 
 
 Than when it caught yon Attic strain. 
 By sweet Electra's poet sung ? 
 For oft that strain was wont to flow 
 Around Cithaeron's rocks of snow ; 
 And oft his harp has lov'd to gleam 
 Amid the bowers of Academe. 
 Taught by the Muse, he smote the lyre. 
 And gazing a,t the minstreVs fire. 
 
 As Athens crowned his early youth with fame ; 
 Yon hoary father shrieked aloud. 
 Hiding his laurel'd brow amid the crowd. 
 
 Though not inglorious he, or of forgotten name*. 
 
 ♦ When Sophocles brought his first tragedy on the stage he 
 won the prize from iEschylus, who withdrew to Sicily. See 
 Frunck's Analecta, V. ii. p. 188. 
 
171 
 
 Break off! — for see on yon pale mountain's side. 
 Like fearful visions of a storm. 
 
 What shadowy forms are seen to glide I 
 
 And fancy first shall him descry. 
 
 Known by his haggard look and sightless eye. 
 The man of Thebes, the incestuous monarch's form. 
 
 Oft on the regal front its splendour shewing. 
 
 The star of glory loves to shine. 
 Each sacred gift of power bestowing. 
 
 And flaming with a birth divine. 
 But he, whose hand a father's blood bedews, 
 
 * Who dares the pure paternal couch ascend; 
 He, whom at once a wife and mother views. 
 
 And at whose feet unhallowed children bend: 
 
 • " Si dulces furias, et lamentabile matris 
 Connubium, gavisus inii.'* Stat. Theb, 1. 69. 
 
172 
 
 Can wealth or power to him restore 
 
 The tranquil thought, the heart's repose. 
 
 Or bid his sorrows stream no more, 
 
 Or with the voice of pity mitigate his woes? 
 
 Nor filial love, nor helpless age, 
 - Nor tears for ever taught to flow. 
 
 Can slake the god's indignant rage. 
 Or shield him from the uplifted blow : 
 
 Gone is the kingly crown, the kingly mind. 
 
 With age, and exiled woes, and solitude behind. 
 
 Fled is the form. — With more majestic tread, ' 
 
 Saw ye yon * injured warrior's shade pass by ; 
 
 In stem defiance shook his helmed head, [eye. 
 
 And glared in proud disdain his awe-commanding 
 
 *Pindar says, the judges were corrupted to give their vote« 
 in favour of Ulysses. Nem. vii.44» 
 
173 
 
 Oh! far amid the tropic tide. 
 
 And girt with Ocean's azure wave. 
 His angry spirit loves to glide 
 
 Amid the green isles of the brave; 
 Delights the beamy spear to throw. 
 To wave the nodding plume of snow, 
 Delights again the ponderous mace to wield, ' 
 And gird the clasping mail, and toss the sevea^fold 
 shield. 
 
 But see, impatient of delay, 
 * The sullen spirit stalks away ; 
 Haste to the wounded chief who lies, 
 
 >Fi/x»f hg tf'^o; yjxi/'wv xcfr7a TiSyciua^m* 
 
174 
 
 Sad listening to the ^gean's mournful roar; 
 When bound for Ilium's palmy plain 
 The burnished vessel swept the main. 
 
 Alone they left him on the desart shore, [cries. 
 And Hope, the friend of all, hears not his frantic 
 
 Ten years alone the warrior lay> 
 
 His dark and solitary sleep, 
 Nor saw aught but the rolling bay. 
 
 Nor heard aught but the howling deep. 
 Yet o'er his youthful eyes would stray 
 
 Heroic dreams by fancy bred; 
 In thought he saw the obedient streamers play, . 
 
 In thought the carnage steamed, and battle bled. 
 And c *H: at night, in thunder deep. 
 The Tyrrhene trump has roused his sleep, 
 
175 
 
 In many a lengthening peal; 
 And o*er the mountain's cloudy steep 
 
 The darkening squadrons sheathed in steel 
 Would seem to float along; 
 
 Then has he girt his arms of might. 
 His fatal quiver slung; 
 And striding to the impetuous fight. 
 
 Awoke the battle-song. 
 
 To sooth his solitary hours 
 
 His god, his guardian- friend in visions came, 
 Awoke the hero's slumbering powers, 
 
 And pointed to the deathless wreath of fame; 
 Again the eye of languor gleams. 
 
 Again the wasted cheek has learn*d to smile, 
 For bounding o'er the ocean streams 
 
 Yon fated bark has reached the L^mnian isle. 
 
17 
 
 Then high upon the trophied prow 
 
 In pride the youthful warrior stood ; 
 And while the billows foamed below. 
 
 His blue arms sparkled in the flood* 
 His gleaming sword was seen to sweep 
 Athwart the bosom of the deep. 
 His angry spear was seen to ride 
 In triumph o*er the subject tide. 
 And ever and anon with look of joy. 
 He reared the fatal bow, and bent his eye to Troy» 
 
 —The vision sinks ! — ^Yet last remains 
 One whose pale cheek the tear-drop stains. 
 For he who o'er Mycenae spread. 
 
 With many a green and palmy bough. 
 His regal sceptre's ample shade. 
 
 That mighty king is fallen now. 
 
 ^ 
 
177 
 
 Flow, flow ye bitter tears, and steep 
 A father's grave, a brother's urn ; 
 Nor yet thy woes, poor injured maid, shall sleep, 
 
 While he, Orestes, lingers to return. 
 Ah, fly! adulterer monarch ily ! 
 
 Ere yet Revenge shall close thy murderous 
 scene. 
 — 'Tis past. — The dagger gleams on high. 
 
 Oh! see how falls thy widow-queen! 
 Then slowly heave the pall aside. 
 And gaze upon the pale and blood-besmeared 
 bride. 
 — 'Tis gone. — The visionary form is fled! 
 
 That linger'd last on fancy's musing eye. 
 Closed is the sad procession of the dead. 
 Like the pale stars along the morning sky; 
 
 !5 
 
178 
 
 While he, great master of the tragic choir. 
 Last waves his laurel'd brow, and bends his eye of 
 fire. 
 
THE MOON. 
 
 I. 
 
 They say, fair Moon 1 thy pallid clime 
 
 Rolls changeless round the realm of Time; 
 
 Thy silver fields and watery bowers 
 
 * Are softer, brighter, far than ours; 
 
 A blessed land, and passing fair to tell. 
 
 The very sweetest spot for mortal man to dwell. 
 
 * According to the disciples of Pythagoras, the plants in the 
 moon are more beautiful, the animals fifteen times larger, and 
 the days fifteen times longer than ours." See Plutarch, de 
 Plac. Philos. ii. c. 30, and Travels of Anacharsis, iii. 179. 
 
180 
 
 And with that thought I*ve gazed on the^, ^1 
 
 Till brighter thou did*sjt seem to be. 
 Till louder swelled the heavenly strain 
 That guides thee through yon boundless plain, 
 And I almost believed it was my prayer 
 That made thee forth to shine so bright, so won- 
 drous fair. 
 
 III. 
 
 When eve, with palmer's modest mien. 
 
 Climbing yon western hill is seen. 
 And lingering down the dewy vale 
 The cuckoo chaunts his latest tale; 
 Then, thou to hear the songster's cry. 
 With step so soft and still, mov'st up the cloudless 
 sky. 
 
181 
 
 IV. 
 
 And o'er the waters cold and bright 
 
 Thou gazest through the still midnight; 
 
 Or is it not thine eye that gleams / 
 
 So mild amid the ocean streams ? 
 
 But thy fair sister, who does love to abide 
 
 With that chaste band of maids beneath the azure 
 
 tide. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then fancy other shapes for thee 
 Does love to weave ; and thou to me. 
 Fair Moon ! in other guise art seen, 
 * A primrose on the vernal green, 
 
 * That primrose there. 
 
 Which 'mon°^st those violets sheds his golden hair, 
 Seems the sun's little son, fixt in his azure sphere. 
 
 P. Fletcher's Eclogues, 5, c. ii. 
 
182 
 
 A little flower beloved by sun and dew. 
 
 Or pale swan floating on amid the waters blue. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And now among thy sister choir, 
 
 A vestal pure with lamp of fire : 
 
 And now by fancy thou art drawn 
 
 A saint-like lady clad in lawn, 
 
 A gentle damsel on the plain. 
 
 Guiding her palfrey white with rod and silken rein. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When Winter starting from his sleep 
 Peals his loud horn along the deep. 
 And calls the giant-gods who dwell 
 In mountain-cave, or ocean-cell ; 
 
183 
 
 Oh ! then a watchman on the lonely tower, 
 Thou guard'st thy beacon-flame through many a 
 midnight hour. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And dear to thee that season bright. 
 
 When, like the genii of the night. 
 
 And tossing wide their fiery hair. 
 
 The northern streamers dance in air. 
 
 And planets shine, and meteors glide afar. 
 
 On some bright message sent to many a distant star. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But when along the battle-plain 
 Thou glarest upon the ghastly slain; 
 
184 
 
 On many a wide and gaping wound, 
 On broken armour strewn around. 
 On scatter'd plumes, and helmets riven, 
 Dark is the look thou wear'st amid the stormy 
 heaven. 
 
 •— 'Tis past ! — For he who by thy side 
 
 Did spread his tresses golden pride; 
 
 E'en he, the youthful star of day. 
 
 Flies from his favourite bride aw§,y, 
 
 Nor sees thee fainting and forlorn. 
 
 Fade like the love-lit lamp before the rising morn. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Alas ! I mark'd thy sad return, 
 I saw thy fever'd forehead burn; 
 
185 
 
 Thy cheek was flushed with scorn and shame, 
 Thy angry eye was red with flame ; 
 And fast I saw thy hurrying journey run. 
 That thou might'st haste to climes untravelPd by 
 th sun. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 There came a beauteous image to my mind. 
 
 That absent never since that hour has been; 
 
 Nor have I from that blessed moment seen 
 Aught else, to nature's works of glory blind. 
 Mild was the look to me it wore, and kind 
 
 The thoughts that from those eyes of lustre fell ; 
 
 Here then, as in a temple, it shall dwell 
 In sanctity, and far from human kind. 
 
190 
 
 All other thoughts I now have put away, 
 
 All that my years of youth were wont to cheer; 
 
 The labour that I loved ; the mind*s free play ; 
 And toil that seemed half sportive, half severe; 
 
 These shall farewell for ever, so I may 
 
 Hold that within my heart so loved and dear. 
 
191 
 II. 
 
 She came in shadowy vestment clad again, 
 A golden fillet bound her braided hair. 
 And like a Grecian lady she did wear 
 
 Her vest's resplendent cincture; of the train 
 
 She seemed of those who tread the Delphian fane 
 With song and virgin symphony; or where 
 Cephisus leads through grot and fountain fair 
 
 His silver-footed Naiad to the main. 
 
 And still when bound in slumber deep alone. 
 Ever do I that beauteous form behold. 
 
 Ever the visionary semblance own 
 
 Of her, whose image in my heart I hold; 
 The maid with golden diadem, and zone 
 
 Resplendent, and the vest of floating fold^ 
 
192 
 III. 
 
 That form has fled. — Before me shone what seemed 
 
 An old barbaric city, in its pride 
 
 Of towers and palaces, such as allied 
 To loftiest tradition: so have gleamed 
 Bactra, or Phrygian Pergamus, or, deemed 
 
 Of highest fame, Selucia, where his tide 
 
 Swift Tigris rolls; or by the Syrian side. 
 Where Balbec, empress of the desart, heam'd. 
 And on a throne of massive gold was seen 
 
 One who her sceptre waved in regal might. 
 And she who seemed that ancient city's queen. 
 
 Was clothed in the majesty of light. 
 I gazed, and it was she in form and mien. 
 
 The maid I loved, so beautiful and bright. 
 
193 
 IV. 
 
 Come, lady, let us roam the beechen bowers, \ 
 
 And though their locks be shattered now and sere. 
 
 Yet the last smile of the departing year 
 We'll share, ere winter bring his lonely hours. 
 And now when eve shuts up the drooping flowers. 
 
 With curious hand the pencil thou wilt seize; 
 
 Or if the lute's soft warbling more may please. 
 So best to wing away the autumnal hours. 
 But how shall I those pleasant times recal. 
 
 When far from thee my wandering feet shall stray. 
 Can I forget that thou to me art all. 
 
 All that I love; my hope, my joy, my stay ? "^ 
 Oh I heavily the hand of grief will fall 
 
 On me, when dwelling lone and far away. 
 
194 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh! no. — I would not dwell near thee again. 
 
 Loved as thou wert, and honour'd once of old; 
 
 Far other thoughts my heart from thee withhold. 
 And I would build upon another plain 
 My household roof and shelter: grief and pain 
 
 Are inmates with the restless and the bold ; 
 
 And wisest he, who so his thoughts would hold 
 Calm, as the sunshine on the summer-main. 
 Woods that arrayed in leafy glory, bring 
 
 To their wild glades the heifer's wand*ring hoof. 
 And torrents down the mountain glens that ring 
 
 Me better please; and near the household woof. 
 And midst the vales, and rural hearths to sing 
 
 The songs that " must be sung high and aloof*.'* 
 
 ♦ There is something come into my mind 
 That must and shall be sung high and aloof. 
 
 B. Johnson's Poetaster, p. 124. 
 
195 
 VI. 
 
 It cannot be that in the muses bower 
 
 Are men, who bartering for their private gain, 
 The lustre of that ancient house would stain; 
 
 And following those who still for place and power 
 
 Are striving; forfeit that most beauteous dower 
 Bequeath'd them, and the virtues peaceful train 
 Desert, and wisdom with her countenance plain 
 
 And meek, and learning through the midnight hour 
 
 Still in his studious hermitage. Who then 
 Seeing the muses haunts by restless feet 
 
 Are trodden, and by bold and violent men ; 
 
 Would wonder if the bard for scenes more meet. 
 
 For the lone valley, and the quiet glen 
 
 Should quit each venal hall, and crowded street. 
 
196 
 
 vir. 
 
 Oh ! beauteous Angel ! who, if poet's sdng 
 Rightly report, didst make mankind thy cafie. 
 And wont in Adam*8 friendly bower to share 
 
 Mild converse with him; Angel! be not long. 
 
 If yet thou lovest U8 (though misrule, and wrong 
 Of heavenly good, well nigh have left us bare), 
 Down to these earthly mansions to repair,* 
 
 With stern rebuke, and admonition strong. 
 
 Yet wherefore should'st thou come ? have we not had 
 Voices of deeper tone, and mightier power ? 
 
 Yea, God himself hath spoken. Oh! bold and 
 bad, 
 
 - Who from that sound have turned, nor knew each 
 shower. 
 
 Earthquake, and storm, and pestilence were made 
 God*s voice of old, to slay, destroy, devour. 
 
197 
 
 VllL 
 
 Oh ! best, oh ! earliest friend ! and is it so. 
 That thou art lying in thy grave-clothes cold. 
 Ere half youth's pleasant summers yet be told? 
 
 And did disease with stealthy foot, and slow," 
 
 Come o'er thee, offering now, and now his blow 
 Withholding, till with joy thine earthly mold 
 Thou gav'st to him who gave it; nor to hold 
 
 Wished longer, nor delay the ravenous foe ? 
 
 Yet much thou hast escaped of grief and pain. 
 Of sights the human mind with sorrow bears; 
 
 Of avarice brooding o*er his unjust gain. 
 And cruelty bemocking human fears. 
 
 Where could'st thou in these days of ill have lain 
 Thy peaceful head,- nor wept at misery's tears ? 
 
198 
 IX. 
 
 I said, that happiest he, who in his grave 
 
 From this bad world in early youth has fled; 
 
 For there is peace and quiet with the dead. 
 Nor tempest reaches them, nor wind, nor wave. 
 Nor storms that ever round the living rave 
 
 Without, and worse the heart within has bred. 
 
 Sm now has dyed earth's beauteous bosom red. 
 And walks abroad with fearless front, and brave. 
 Then, God be thanked, our noblest men are gone^ 
 
 And joy to think they ne'er can rise again; 
 Our fathers cannot know what we have done. 
 
 Their name, their worth, their glory all to stain. 
 Thrice happy 1 who their mighty course have run. 
 
 Ere shame for us had filled their hearts with pain. 
 
199 
 
 So have I sung those mighty Grecian peers, 
 
 With whose great fame the world from side to 
 
 side 
 Has thundered ; glad with labour to have plyed 
 And argument of song my earliest years. 
 What time, that half the globe with doubts and 
 fears, 
 Ilock'd as an earthquake : and in wars long tried 
 Was wanting found that Austriack prince, whose 
 pride 
 Bowed by the Danaw. — Many a widow's tears 
 Darken' d its blood-red billows, for the sight 
 Was ghastly; earth beneath its load of dead 
 
eoo 
 
 Groaned, and in even scales the dubious fight 
 Hung poised, while thrice the western sun his 
 head 
 
 Dropt in the ocean ; then that fatal night 
 Descended, and the bold Hungarian fled^ 
 
 THE ENp. 
 
 T. DAVISON, 
 
 Lombard-Street, Whitefriars, Loadoi. 
 

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