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Rh

What boots this restless wish? 'tis all blank silence On that for which my greedy ears still watch. There's ne'er a Turk, who, o'er his evening pipe, Will not far rather talk of daring feats By petty robbers done, than all the fame And grand achievements of his sov'reign lord. 'Tis cheerless silence all! Dull, stupid race! They arm them for to-morrow's fight, 'tis true, With much alacrity, and talk of conquest, Carnage, and spoils; but for their sultan's name, The name of Mahomet, thro' all the camp I've scarcely heard its sound. Nay, once I heard it In accents harsh pronounc'd, but as to listen I nearer drew, my steps the speaker fear'd, And all was into fearful silence hush'd. Their sultan's name!—Pest seize the stupid slaves! O, Constantine! it is not thus thy soldiers Do arm themselves for thee. Ho, Osmir! art thou near me?

Yes, my lord.

Hast thou been list'ning too?