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Along the gulf, the mount, the clime;

It will not melt, like man, to time:

Tyrant and slave are swept away, 325

Less formed to wear before the ray;

But that white veil, the lightest, frailest,

Which on the mighty mount thou hailest,

While tower and tree are torn and rent,

Shines o'er its craggy battlement; 330

In form a peak, in height a cloud,

In texture like a hovering shroud,

Thus high by parting Freedom spread,

As from her fond abode she fled,

And lingered on the spot, where long 335

Her prophet spirit spake in song.

Oh, still her step at moments falters

O'er withered fields, and ruined altars,

And fain would wake, in souls too broken,

By pointing to each glorious token. 340

But vain her voice, till better days

Dawn in those yet remembered rays

Which shone upon the Persian flying,

And saw the Spartan smile in dying.

XV.

Not mindless of these mighty times

Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes;

And through this night, as on he wandered,

And o'er the past and present pondered,

And thought upon the glorious dead

Who there in better cause had bled,

He felt how faint and feebly dim

The fame that could accrue to him,

Who cheered the band, and waved the sword,

A traitor in a turbaned horde;

And led them to the lawless siege,

Whose best success were sacrilege.

Not so had those his fancy numbered,

The chiefs whose dust around him slumbered

Their phalanx marshalled on the plain,

Whose bulwarks were not then in vain.

They fell devoted, but undying;

The very gale their names seemed sighing:

The waters murmured of their name;

The woods were peopled with their fame;

The silent pillar, lone and gray,

Claimed kindred with their sacred clay;

i

Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain,

Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain;

The meanest rill, the mightiest river

Rolled mingling with their fame for ever. 370

Despite of every yoke she bears,

That land is glory's still and theirs!

'Tis still a watch-word to the earth.

When man would do a deed of worth,

He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 375

So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head:

He looks to her, and rushes on

Where life is lost, or freedom won.

XVI.

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused,

And wooed the freshness Night diffused. 380

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea 3,

Which changeless rolls eternally;

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood,

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood;

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 385

Heedless if she come or go:

Calm or high, in main or bay,

On their course she hath no sway.

The rock unworn its base doth bare,

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there; 390

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below,

On the line that it left long ages ago:

A smooth short space of yellow sand

Between it and the greener land.

He wandered on, along the beach, 395
Till within the range of a carbine's reach
Of the leaguered wall; but they saw him not,
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot?
Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold?
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts waxed
cold? 400
I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall
There flashed no fire, and there hissed no ball,
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown,
That flanked the sea-ward gate of the town;
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel, 406
As his measured step on the stone below
Clanked, as he paced it to and fro;
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall
Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 410
Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb;
They were too busy to bark at him!
From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh,
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh; 414
And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull4,
As it slipped through their jaws, when their edge
grew dull,

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed;

So well had they broken a lingering fast

With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 420

And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand,

The foremost of these were the best of his band:

Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear,

And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair',

All the rest was shaven and bare. 425

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,

The hair was tangled round his jaw.

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 430

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;

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