THE MEDITERRANEAN.

As rose the Muezzin's voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer ;
It rose, that chanted mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain :
'Twas musical, but sadly sweet,

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,
And take a long unmeasured tone,
To mortal minstrelsy unknown.
It seem'd to those within the wall
A cry prophetic of their fall:
It struck even the besieger's ear
With something ominous and drear,
An undefined and sudden thrill,
Which makes the heart a moment still,
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed
Of that strange sense its silence framed ;
Such as a sudden passing-bell

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.

THE MEDITERRANEAN.

SIEGE OF CORINTH.

THERE shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,
Which changeless rolls eternally;

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood,
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood;

And the powerless moon beholds them flow,

Heedless if she come or go;

Calm or high, in main or bay,

On their course she hath no sway.

The rock unworn its base doth bare,

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there;

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And the fringe of the foam may be seen below,
On the line that it left long ages ago:
A smooth short space of yellow sand
Between it and the greener land.

SIEGE OF CORINTH.

THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT.

ALP saw the lean dogs beneath the wall
Hold o'er the dead their carnival;

Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb,

They were too busy to bark at him!

From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh,

As ye peel the fig when the fruit is fresh ;

And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,

As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed; So well had they broken a lingering fast

With those who had fallen for that night's repast.

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band:
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear,
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,
All the rest was shaven and bare.

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,
The hair was tangled round his jaw.

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;

THE APPARITION OF FRANCESCA.

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay.

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;

But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,
Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,

And Honour's eye on daring deeds!

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead,
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ;

All regarding man as their prey,

All rejoicing in his decay.

SIEGE OF CORINTH.

THE APPARITION OF FRANCESCA.*

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Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,
Sent that soft and tender moan?

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea,
But it was unrippled as glass may be ;

* Corinth, in the hands of the Venetians, is besieged by the Mahometans, and Alp, persecuted by the Venetian government, has joined himself to the enemies of his former country and creed. Francesca, to whom he had been betrothed, is with her father, who commands for the Venetians at Corinth. There she dies, and immediately after appears to Alp, to warn him of his crime.

He look'd on the long grass-it waved not a blade;
How was that gentle sound convey'd ?

He look'd to the banners-each flag lay still,
So did the leaves on Citharon's hill,

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek;
What did that sudden sound bespeak?

He turn'd to the left-is he sure of sight?
There sate a lady, youthful and bright!

He started up with more of fear
Than if an armed foe were near.
"God of my fathers! what is here?"
He gazed, he saw he knew the face
Of beauty, and the form of grace;
It was Francesca by his side,

The maid who might have been his bride!

The rose was yet upon her cheek,
But mellow'd with a tenderer streak:
Where was the play of her soft lips fled?
Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red.
The ocean's calm within their view,
Beside her eye had less of blue;

But like that cold wave it stood still,
And its glance, though clear, was chill.
Around her form a thin robe twining,
Nought conceal'd her bosom shining;
Through the parting of her hair,
Floating darkly downward there,

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare:

And ere yet she made reply,

Once she raised her hand on high;

It was so wan, and transparent of hue,

You might have seen the moon shine through.

THE APPARITION OF FRANCESCA.

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"I come from my rest to him I love best,
That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd.
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall;
Sought thee in safety through foes and all.
I come-and if I come in vain,

Never, oh never, we meet again!
Thou hast done a fearful deed

In falling away from thy fathers' creed:
But dash that turban to earth, and sign
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine;
Wring the black drop from thy heart,
And to-morrow unites us no more to part."

And where should our bridal couch be spread?
In the midst of the dying and the dead?
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name.
None, save thou and thine, I've sworn,

Shall be left upon the morn:

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,

Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot.

There thou yet shalt be my bride,

When once again I've quell'd the pride

Of Venice; and her hated race
Have felt the arm they would debase
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those
Whom vice and envy made my foes."

Upon his hand she laid her own—

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone,
And shot a chillness to his heart,

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold;
But never did clasp of one so dear