 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird |  |
III.
And to his shout, thrice with his scimitar
Zemberbo smote the wall, the earnest of his war.
Yet not his soul indignant was content
Till, fear-defying, to the gates he went,
And smote them too. Then northward, swift of foot,
He ran, lest mounted foes were in pursuit;
Rough hills in view, there he can hide a space
From foes pursuing, and defy their chase.
But lo! comes on a stranger on his barb,
Through the dim dawn, of Moorish front and garb.
Stood in his path Zemberbo, questioned high
Of name and place, and claimed a prompt reply.
“A friend to Fez; and tidings for the King,”
The horseman said, “but death for thee we bring,
If thus you dare our onward way to bar:
Give place, and shun our weightier scimitar.”
“Friend to the tyrant? perish for that word!”
Zemberbo cried, struck down the stranger's sword,
Disarmed him, smote again, and hewed away
His turbaned head, far rolling in the clay.
Plunged the chafed charger; from the quivering trunk
Forth spun the purple life-strings, ere it sunk;
Nor sunk it yet, but sate a hideous sight,
And still it held the reins with hands convulsed and white,
Till, tumbled by the victor from its place,
He sate instead, and urged his vehement pace.
And on, fast, far he flew; nor scorned to bless
The gallant steed, whose speed was only less
Than his winged heart indignant: He caressed
The tossing mane that swept his urging breast,
And toyed with it in the fierce dallying play
Of spirit burning for a boundless sway.
But turning oft, the Fezzan towers he cursed.
Up the steep ways he strained, down on the vales he burst,
Devoured the plain, and swam the rapid stream,
And shook its coldness from him like a dream.
Uprose the sun; straight through a dowar's ground
The Chieftain rode, disdaining to go round;
Brushed down the crashing tents, nor stayed to hear
The awakened sleepers with their cries of fear.
Noon passed: eve came: he saw the rushing sea,
In great accordance with his energy.
Then by the tawny sands Zemberbo went,
And reached his camp, and rested in his tent.
Zemberbo smote the wall, the earnest of his war.
Yet not his soul indignant was content
Till, fear-defying, to the gates he went,
And smote them too. Then northward, swift of foot,
He ran, lest mounted foes were in pursuit;
Rough hills in view, there he can hide a space
From foes pursuing, and defy their chase.
But lo! comes on a stranger on his barb,
Through the dim dawn, of Moorish front and garb.
Stood in his path Zemberbo, questioned high
Of name and place, and claimed a prompt reply.
“A friend to Fez; and tidings for the King,”
The horseman said, “but death for thee we bring,
If thus you dare our onward way to bar:
Give place, and shun our weightier scimitar.”
“Friend to the tyrant? perish for that word!”
Zemberbo cried, struck down the stranger's sword,
Disarmed him, smote again, and hewed away
His turbaned head, far rolling in the clay.
Plunged the chafed charger; from the quivering trunk
Forth spun the purple life-strings, ere it sunk;
Nor sunk it yet, but sate a hideous sight,
And still it held the reins with hands convulsed and white,
Till, tumbled by the victor from its place,
He sate instead, and urged his vehement pace.
179
The gallant steed, whose speed was only less
Than his winged heart indignant: He caressed
The tossing mane that swept his urging breast,
And toyed with it in the fierce dallying play
Of spirit burning for a boundless sway.
But turning oft, the Fezzan towers he cursed.
Up the steep ways he strained, down on the vales he burst,
Devoured the plain, and swam the rapid stream,
And shook its coldness from him like a dream.
Uprose the sun; straight through a dowar's ground
The Chieftain rode, disdaining to go round;
Brushed down the crashing tents, nor stayed to hear
The awakened sleepers with their cries of fear.
Noon passed: eve came: he saw the rushing sea,
In great accordance with his energy.
Then by the tawny sands Zemberbo went,
And reached his camp, and rested in his tent.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird | |