The strong spasmodic weeping of a man. And all that night in Michael’s tent there burned, Though foul with smoke, and swayed by gusty winds, A strong bright torch, fit emblem of his soul, That keen lamp of God’s lighting bright and strong. While, looking on a tress of golden hair That lay before him, all night long he sate; This was the man who left in days gone by, A friend, and a friend’s sister, dear as he— A most kind mother, sinking with her cares— An apathetic father, worn with woe— A home in ruins—and a noble name, To be renewed, or ended, by himself. VI. All things had now combined; they were to march Against the English army; thoughts long nursed Had taken form, to ripen into deeds. The rains were ended; and the army met In an old city where he marshalled them; And, as he walked at evening, on the terrace Of the high castle where his dwelling was, He looked through fretted arches to the plain, And saw their tents dropped white and countless there, Like sheep without a shepherd—like poor sheep Marked for the slaughter—and he pitied them. Ere long, the dying despot of the day Sank softly down, drowned in a sea of blood— Like the old Roman Wolf in Capreæ. Michael prepared for action: dark night fell, The tents were lost to sight, the shouting sank, The drums were silent, all the plain was dark; Only against the far horizon loomed The uneven outline of the distant hills. He called his trusty troopers, and stole forth, Hoping to pass the camp all unobserved; But with that Host was one who loved him not, His own Lieutenant, nephew to the King, And higher in the soldiers’ hearts than he— This man had dogged his path for many a day— And when they came to the town’s outer gate, They found it strictly guarded; Michael rode, In anger, at the densest, shouting loud, “Smite, smite them, spare not, each man for his life.” His Arab Horse, that stood with gathered limbs, And head reined to his chest, sprang at the cry, And leaping, like a flame, plunged in the crowd; The rest was one confusion, without sight, Or sound—a breathless dream of ecstasy— Till he, and half a hundred mounted men, Were pouring o’er the plain, as pour the floods, When the dams burst, and winter drowns the fields. On came the fierce Lieutenant, and behind Thundered a motley rabble, whose lean steeds Could ill sustain that violent career, And soon there were not left who followed him Five hundred horsemen; still the chase was hot;— Hot was the chase, and long—o’er scorched sands, And open cornfields, till the spent pursuers