THE

SIEGE OF CORINTH.

I.

MANY a vanished year and age,
And tempest's breath, and battle's rage,

Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands

As if their waters chafed to meet,
Yet
pause and crouch beneath her feet.
But could the blood before her shed

Since first Timoleon's brother bled,

10

Or baffled Persia's despot fled,

15

Arise from out the earth which drank

The stream of slaughter as it sank,
That sanguine ocean would o'erflow
Her isthmus idly spread below:

Or could the bones of all the slain,

20

Who perished there, be piled again,

That rival pyramid would rise

More mountain-like, through those clear skies,

Than yon tower-capt Acropolis

Which seems the very

clouds to kiss.

II.

On dun Citharon's ridge appears

The gleam of twice ten thousand spears;
And downward to the Isthmian plain

From shore to shore of either main,

The tent is pitched, the crescent shines
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines;
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance
Beneath each bearded pasha's glance;
And far and wide as eye can reach

25

30

The turban'd cohorts throng the beach;

35

And there the Arab's camel kneels,

And there his steed the Tartar wheels;
The Turcoman hath left his herd',

The sabre round his loins to gird;

And there the volleying thunders pour,
Till waves grow smoother to the roar.
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath
Wings the far hissing globe of death;
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall,
Which crumbles with the ponderous ball;

40

45

And from that wall the foe replies,

O'er dusty plain and smoky skies,

With fires that answer fast and well

The summons of the Infidel.

As

any chief that ever stood

Triumphant in the fields of blood;

From post to post, and deed to deed,

Fast spurring on his reeking steed,

55

Where sallying ranks the trench assail,
And make the foremost Moslem quail;
Or where the battery guarded well,
Remains as yet impregnable,
Alighting cheerly to inspire

The soldier slackening in his fire;

60

The first and freshest of the host

Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast,

65

To guide the follower o'er the field,

To point the tube, the lance to wield,

He stood a foe, with all the zeal

Which young and fiery converts feel,
Within whose heated bosom throngs

The memory of a thousand wrongs.
To him had Venice ceased to be

Her ancient civic boast-" the Free;"
And in the palace of St. Mark
Unnamed accusers in the dark

Within the "Lion's mouth" had placed

A charge against him uneffaced:
He fled in time, and saved his life,

To waste his future years in strife,

That taught his land how great her loss

In him who triumphed o'er the Cross,

'Gainst which he reared the Crescent high,

And battled to avenge or die.

V.

Coumourgi―he whose closing scene
Adorned the triumph of Eugene,

When on Carlowitz' bloody plain

The last and mightiest of the slain

He sank, regretting not to die,

100

But curst the Christian's victory