Flew from its massive hinge the shattered door, The splintered fragments strewed the marble floor; Wild through the breach like flashing waves they rolled, All plumed and armed, and glittering o’er with gold; Up to the aim rose Gilbert’s rifles all, Rung the report and sped the deadly ball. Th’ exulting shout that swelled the foeman’s breath, Is quenched in yells of anguish and of death— Once more they crowd—once more the volley came, They sink like withered grass that feels the flame, A ghastly pile of quivering limbs and gore Bars up the way and chokes the narrow door, But fast and thick, on numbers numbers press, And death that thins seems scarce to leave them less, Till in one mass, confused and fierce they close; Shot answers shot, and blows are met by blows, Useless the rifle now in that red strife, Swings the short sword and speeds the gory knife, The sulphurous smoke hangs o’er them like a pall, While reeling round they struggle, strike and fall. Foremost of all, conspicuous, Gilbert stood, His whirling sabre dripping red with blood; Gleamed his gray eye, his lordly brow was bare, In tangled masses fell his raven hair, Like weeds they fall where’er his weapon swept, Still round his form a vacant ring he kept, Where his blade gleams they sink with quivering cry, And still through all one plume attracts his eye. As through wild waves the vessel hold her course Straight for the port, so through the serried force He cleaves his way—as winds and waves will turn The bark aside, that struggles to her bourne, So still opposing numbers bar his way, And rush between the avenger and his prey. XI. Borne back—repulsed—defeated—conquered—no! Not while one wearied arm can strike a blow— Stand the lorn few, and deeply draw their breath For one last stroke, one struggle more with death As sometimes, when the tempest wildest raves, Comes a short lull along the flashing waves, So seemed that pause in havoc’s mad career, So deep you almost might their breathing hear. Then, too, oh contrast strange! who looked might see The moonlight sleeping on the hill’s green lea, The trees where ’mid the boughs the wild bird swings, And rocked in slumber folds her wearied wings, The jeweled grass, the flower whose sun-parched lip Fresh health and beauty from the night may sip, The rippling streams that feed with ceaseless flow The pulseless bosom of the lake below, Where, glassed between long shadows dusk and brown, In lines of light the mirrored skies sweep down. Oh, gazing on such scene, how sweetly come O’er the full soul dear memories of home! And were but griefs forgot, and faults forgiven, The heart might dream this earth should yet be heaven; All this the long wide window could disclose, With frame festooned by many a folded rose— But not for eyes like theirs that gentle sight, So calm, so sweet, so beautiful, so bright.