 | Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems |  |
196
ALGIERS.
202
Algiers! wild Algiers!
There are sounds through the night,
Coming thick on the gale,
Sounds of battle and flight;
And the spurring of squadrons,
The roll of the wain,
The beacon's broad blaze
On the far mountain-chain,
And the desert-horn's howl,
Like the wolf in his prowl;
And the flash of the spear,
Tell the Berber is there.
There are sounds through the night,
Coming thick on the gale,
Sounds of battle and flight;
And the spurring of squadrons,
The roll of the wain,
The beacon's broad blaze
On the far mountain-chain,
And the desert-horn's howl,
Like the wolf in his prowl;
And the flash of the spear,
Tell the Berber is there.
203
The tempest is coming,
It swells from the South—
The Desert's bold riders,
Age, manhood, and youth!
Their steeds are like wind,
And their frames are like fire,
That wounds cannot tame,
That toil cannot tire.
On they burst like a flood,
Till the Desert drinks blood,
Thick as night-falling dew;
“Allah hu! Allah hu!”
It swells from the South—
The Desert's bold riders,
Age, manhood, and youth!
Their steeds are like wind,
And their frames are like fire,
That wounds cannot tame,
That toil cannot tire.
On they burst like a flood,
Till the Desert drinks blood,
Thick as night-falling dew;
“Allah hu! Allah hu!”
The Frenchmen are rushing
To gate and to wall;
But, the Moor is awake
In his gold-tissued hall.
He sharpens the dagger,
And loads the carbine,
And oft looks to the East,
For the morning to shine!
And from rampart and roof
Crowds are gazing aloof;
And their gestures, though dumb,
Tell, “the Emir is come!”
To gate and to wall;
But, the Moor is awake
In his gold-tissued hall.
He sharpens the dagger,
And loads the carbine,
And oft looks to the East,
For the morning to shine!
204
Crowds are gazing aloof;
And their gestures, though dumb,
Tell, “the Emir is come!”
Ay, follow the Berber
Through hill and through vale;
He's the falcon, and swift
As its wing on the gale.
Ay, scorch through the day,
And freeze through the night;
He's the panther, one bound,
And he's gone from your sight;
But death's in his tramp,
As he roams round your camp;
One grasp, and one roar,
And you sleep in your gore.
Through hill and through vale;
He's the falcon, and swift
As its wing on the gale.
Ay, scorch through the day,
And freeze through the night;
He's the panther, one bound,
And he's gone from your sight;
But death's in his tramp,
As he roams round your camp;
One grasp, and one roar,
And you sleep in your gore.
'Tis the blue depth of midnight;
The moon is above,
Shedding silver in showers
On mosque and on grove;
And the sense is opprest
With the sweetness of night.
'Tis an hour to be blest,
All fragrance and light;
But the volley's quick peal,
And the clashing of steel,
And the cannon's deep boom,
There, are gorging the tomb!
The moon is above,
Shedding silver in showers
On mosque and on grove;
205
With the sweetness of night.
'Tis an hour to be blest,
All fragrance and light;
But the volley's quick peal,
And the clashing of steel,
And the cannon's deep boom,
There, are gorging the tomb!
There is war on the hill,
In the rocky ravine,
On the corn-covered plain,
In the forest's thick screen.
And the roaring of battle
Still swells through the night;
But at Morning the vultures
Will stoop from their flight,
Where the feast has been laid,
By bayonet and blade;
And unscared they may wreak
The talon and beak!
In the rocky ravine,
On the corn-covered plain,
In the forest's thick screen.
And the roaring of battle
Still swells through the night;
But at Morning the vultures
Will stoop from their flight,
Where the feast has been laid,
By bayonet and blade;
And unscared they may wreak
The talon and beak!
206
Shall the plague-spot still blacken
On each and on all?
Where art thou, old Bourbon?
Europe scoffed at thy fall;
Where thy fierce “thirty thousand,”
Napoleon's old “braves?”
Like thee, they are corpses;
Algiers gave them graves!
Where the victor Bourmont?
He has followed thy throne.
Where thy councillors? Fled,
In the dungeon, or dead!
On each and on all?
Where art thou, old Bourbon?
Europe scoffed at thy fall;
Where thy fierce “thirty thousand,”
Napoleon's old “braves?”
Like thee, they are corpses;
Algiers gave them graves!
Where the victor Bourmont?
He has followed thy throne.
Where thy councillors? Fled,
In the dungeon, or dead!
Yet, France, though the Berber
Were crushed by thy heel;
In his heart he has hate,
In his hand he has steel.
His peace will be war!
Thou shalt slay, and be slain!
The length of thy sabre,
The breadth of thy reign!
And the world shall yet ring
With the fall of a King,
Flung from country and throne;
Smote, like thee, old Bourbon!
Were crushed by thy heel;
In his heart he has hate,
In his hand he has steel.
His peace will be war!
Thou shalt slay, and be slain!
The length of thy sabre,
The breadth of thy reign!
207
With the fall of a King,
Flung from country and throne;
Smote, like thee, old Bourbon!
But, France, must the Charnel
Still gape for the dead?
Must the jackal and wolf
Still on carnage be fed?
Thy treasure, and blood,
Nay, thy valour, in vain,
Thy conquest—but dust,
To be conquered again.
Still, ploughing the sand;
Still, sabre in hand!
Thou, a kingdom of biers,
Algiers, wild Algiers!
Still gape for the dead?
Must the jackal and wolf
Still on carnage be fed?
Thy treasure, and blood,
Nay, thy valour, in vain,
Thy conquest—but dust,
To be conquered again.
Still, ploughing the sand;
Still, sabre in hand!
Thou, a kingdom of biers,
Algiers, wild Algiers!
| Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems | |