Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/251

250 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,