The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly :: :: University of Virginia Library

They lead a captive; the Pashaw
From his large eye draws back with awe;
All tongues are silent in the group,
Who round that fearful stranger troop:
He still has homage, though his hands
Are straining in a felon's bands.

172

No Moslem he; his brow is bare,
Save one wild tress of raven hair,
Like a black serpent deeply bound,
Where once sat Servia's golden round.
His neck bends low, and many a stain
Of blood shows how it feels the chain;
A peasant's robe is o'er him flung,
A swordless sheath beside him hung;
He sits a charger, but a slave
Now holds the bridle of the brave.

And now they line the palace-square,
A splendid sight, as noon's full glare
Pours on their proud caparison,
Arms rough with gold and dazzling stone,
Horse-nets, and shawls of Indian dye,
O'er brows of savage majesty.
But where's the fetter'd rider now?
A flag above, a block below,
An Ethiop headsman low'ring near,
Show where must close his stern career.

173

A thousand eyes are fix'd to mark
The fading of his eye's deep spark,
The quicken'd heaving of his breast;
But all within it is at rest:
There is no quivering nerve; his brow
Scarce bent upon the crowd below,
He stands in settled, stately gloom,
A warrior's statue on his tomb.

A trumpet rang;—the turban'd line
Clash'd up their spears, the headsman's sign.
Then, like the iron in the forge,
Blazed thy dark visage, Czerni George!
He knew that trumpet's Turkish wail,
His guide through many a forest vale,
When, scattering like the hunted deer,
The Moslem felt his early spear;
He heard it when the Servian targe
Broke down the Delhi's desperate charge,
And o'er the flight his scimitar
Was like the flashing of a star:

174

That day, his courser to the knee
Was bathed in blood, and Servia free!
That day, before he sheathed his blade,
He stood a sovereign in Belgrade;
The field, the throne were on that eye,
Which wander'd now so wild and high.

The hour had waned; the sunbeam fell
Full on the palace pinnacle,
The golden crescent on its spire
Beam'd o'er a cross! his eye shot fire;
That cross was o'er the crescent set,
The day he won the coronet.
He dash'd away a tear of pride,
His hand was darted to his side,
No sword was there:—a bitter smile
Told the stern spirit's final thrill;
Yet all not agony; afar,
Mark'd he no cloud of northern war?
Swell'd on his prophet ear no clang
Of tribes that to their saddles sprang?

175

No Russian cannon's heavy hail
In vengeance smiting the Serail?
The whole was but a moment's trance,
That 'scaped the turban'd rabble's glance;
A sigh, a stride, a stamp the whole,
Time measures not the tides of soul.
He was absorb'd in dreams, not saw
The hurried glare of the Pashaw;
Nor saw the headsman's backward leap,
To give his axe the wider sweep.
Down came the blow;—the self-same smile
Was lingering on the dead lip still,
When 'mid the train the pikeman bore
The bloody head of the Pandour.

The night was wild, the atabal
Scarce echoed on the rampart wall;
Scarce heard the shrinking centinel,
The night-horn in that tempest's yell.
But forms, as shot the lightning's glare,
Stole silent through that palace-square,

176

And thick and dim a weeping group
Seem'd o'er its central spot to stoop.
The storm a moment paused, the moon
Broad from a hurrying cloud-rift shone;
It shone upon a headless trunk,
Raised in their arms; the moonbeam sunk,
And all was dimness; but the beat
Came sudden as of parting feet,
And sweet and solemn voices pined
In the low lapses of the wind.
'Twas like the hymn, when soldiers bear
A soldier to his sepulchre.

The lightning threw a shaft below,
The stately square was desert now.
Yet far, as far as eye could strain,
Was seen the remnant of a train;
A wavering shadow of a crowd,
That round some noble burden bow'd.
'Twas gone, and all was night once more,
Wild rain, and whirlwind's doubled roar.