Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/156

 While the horse-tails are dashing Afar in the van;— See where yon pale crescent And green turban shine, There, smite for the Prophet, And Othman's great line! Allah, il allah! The fierce war-cry is given,— For the flesh of the Giaour Shriek the vultures of heaven. Allah, il allah!

Allah, il allah! How thick on the plain, The infidels cluster Like ripe, heavy grain. The reaper is coming, The crooked sickle's bare, And the shout of the Faithful Is rending the air. Bismillah! Bismillah! Each far-flashing brand Hath piled its red harvest Of death on the land! Allah, il allah!