Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 098.djvu/195

Rh version ought to be in request. It comprises the first five books, which include the most admired sections of the epic.—viz., the story of Ignez de Castro, she who

and also the vision at the Cape of Good Hope, which, in the vigorous interpretation of Mr. Quillinan, shows quite another front from the comparatively dull presentment of William Julius Mickle. Fain would we quote the vision entire; but 'tis not for mortals to command space any more than success, and therefore be it our conso;ation (pace tanti editor) to deserve it.

a Pole, and dare to own it:

One of Krasinsky's old Red Lancers,

When he led through flame and thunder

Ten stout troops of coal-black prancers.

Bogs Toboi! Herr Krasinsky,

Carajo! my Hetman dear; Bravest heart that bled for Poland—

Heart that never felt a fear.

Corpo Bacco! how we battled,

Camped and marched the wide world over.

Caramba! I'm like the Calmuc,

In my own land but a rover.

We were there by Varshow's city,

At the harvest of the plain, When the Russian blood—Sapisti!—

Fell warm and Cut as the summer rain.

When Tobolska fed the bonfire,

Hot and flaming. such a roaster (laughs),

We were there with lance and sabre.

And a pistol at each holster.

Sacrament! old Platoff's Cossacks,

Shouting slaves, who cared for no land,

How we clove them to the navel,

When we thought on bleeding Poland.

When proud Rheinow's stoutest ramparts

Flew to heaven in fiery shivers,

We rushed up, though shell and bullet

Were sweeping down in red-hot rivers.

Like a crimson cloud we spread us

O'er the crumbling breach, loud roaring,

When in streams, as from a crater.

Lurid lava fire was pouring.

Our dark path was lit by lightning

From the smoke-cloud leaping, flashing,

When the glowing globes of iron

Through the burning roofs went crashing.

And the dim and dusky vapour,

Breathed as hot as hell's red prison,

And a ahriek of thousands joining,

From the pillaged city's risen.

Now for burst of whirlwind charging.

And the war-drum's stormy rattle,

Now for shrill voice of the bugle

Heard above the eddying battle;

The deep tramp of men united,

Dreadful as the earthquake's tread,

And the rumble of the cannon,

Muffled by down-trodden dead.

Crishto! how the spearman's pennon

In the frost air floats and dances;

Were the white sky now to fill in,

We could hold it on our lances.

Now to horse my fellow-troopers,

Leave your drinking, shouting, singing;

Hark! the well-known sound that calls us,

Blade against steel stirrup ringing. G. W. T.