174.

Hassan describes some incident of the warfare between the Turks and Greeks, about the year 1821.

Hassan. One half the Grecian army made a bridge Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead;

The other

Mahmud.

Hassan.

Speak-tremble not.-
Islanded

By victor myriads, formed in hollow square

With rough and steadfast front, and thrice flung back
The deluge of our foaming cavalry;

Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our lines.
Our baffled army trembled like one man

Before a host, and gave them space; but soon,
From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed,
Kneading them down with fire and iron rain :
Yet none approached; till, like a field of corn
Under the hook of the swart sickleman,

The band, intrenched in mounds of Turkish dead,
Grew weak and few.-Then said the Pacha, "Slaves,
Render yourselves—they have abandoned you--
What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid?

We grant your lives." "Grant that which is thine own!"
Cried one, and fell upon his sword and died!
Another "
"God, and man, and hope abandon me ;
But I to them, and to myself, remain

Constant !"-he bowed his head, and his heart burst.
A third exclaimed, “There is a refuge, tyrant,
Where thou dar'st not pursue, and canst not harm,
Should'st thou pursue; there we shall meet again."
Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm,
The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment
Among the slain-dead earth upon the earth!
So these survivors, each by different ways,
Some strange, all sudden, none dishonourable,
Met in triumphant death; and when our army
Closed in, while yet wonder, and awe, and shame,
Held back the base hyenas of the battle
That feed upon the dead and fly the living,
One rose out of the chaos of the slain :

And if it were a corpse which some dread spirit

Of the old saviours of the land we rule
Had lifted in its anger wandering by ;-
Or if there burned within the dying man
Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith
Creating what it feigned;-I cannot tell-
But he cried, "Phantoms of the free, we come!
Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike

To dust the citadels of sanguine kings,

And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts,
And thaw their frostwork diadems like dew ;-

O ye who float around this clime, and weave

The garment of the glory which it wears,

Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasped,—-
Lies sepulchred in monumental thought ;—
Progenitors of all that yet is great,
Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept
In your high ministrations, us, your sons—
Us first, and the more glorious yet to come!
And ye, weak conquerors! giants who look pale
When the crushed worm rebels beneath your tread,
The vultures and the dogs, your pensioners tame,
Are over-gorged; but, like oppressors, still
They crave the relic of Destruction's feast.
The exhalations and the thirsty winds

Are sick with blood; the dew is foul with death;
Heaven's light is quenched in slaughter: thus, where'er
Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets,

The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast

Of these dead limbs,-upon your streams and mountains,
Upon your fields, your gardens, and your house-tops,
Where'er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly,

Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down
With poisoned light--Famine and Pestilence,
And Panic, shall wage war upon our side!
Nature from all her boundaries is moved
Against ye Time has found ye light as foam."

P. B. SHELLEY.

175. Prospice.

FEAR death?-to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness, and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

176.

R. BROWNING.

Song.

RARELY, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure,

Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure.

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh earth in new leaves drest,
And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess

The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love though he has wings,

And like light can flee,

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life! O come,

Make once more my heart thy home.

177.

P. B. SHELLEY.

Fancy.

EVER let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let wingèd Fancy wander

Through the thought still spread beyond her :
Open wide the mind's cage door,

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the spring
Fades as does its blossoming:
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;

When the soundless earth is muffled,

And the cakèd snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;

When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy

To banish even from her sky.

Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,

Fancy high-commissioned: send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring, in spite of frost,

Beauties that the earth hath lost;