Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/251

Peals out at distance. The infuriate Turks
Rush to the guarded wall, and, vaunting, rear
The haughty crescent o'er the cross of Christ.
High Heaven hath mercy. The brief battle swells
Back to the plain again, and sweeping on,
Like the spent whirlwind, sinks. The courser's tramp,
And clash of ataghan, and trumpet blast,
And the fierce shout of man's wild passions die
Upon the tranquil air. But there are strewn
Sad witnesses around: the shivered sword,
The frequent blood-pool, and the severed limb,
While here and there a gorgeous Mussulman
Sleeps in his pomp of armour. The slain Greeks
Do lie with faces heavenward, as becomes
Sons of Miltiades. Methinks the frown
That knits their brows, tells how with Death did strive
The thought of Athens, and their country's fate.
Would this were all!
                                   But there are dens and caves,
And rugged mountain-paths, where those have fallen
Whom love would die to save; and their soft hands
Did woo the sabre's edge, and press it close,
As a long-parted friend.
                                         Ah! might I turn
Forever from such scenes. But in my dreams,
When woe doth tint them, to this hour I see
A beauteous form, which on the encrimsoned turf
Was smitten down, and close those polished arms
Bound to the marble breast, in death's embrace,
A young, unconscious babe.
                                                 The ruddy boy
Seemed full of health, and light his sportive hand
'Mid his fair mother's glossy tresses roved,
While his bright lip, not yet to language trained,
Solicited regard. But when no sound
Assured the nursling, and an icebolt seemed
From that dead breast to shoot into his soul,