And away, and away, like thunder weather, Full twenty cannon blaze together; Forth the volcano vomits wide. The men who fired them spring aside, As back the cannons wheeled. Then came a solemn pause; One would have thought the mountain reeled, As a crater opes its jaws. But the smoke and sulphur clearing, Down the mountain's side, unfearing, Phantom-like glided horse and man, As though they had no danger ran. "Hurrah! hurrah!" the soldiers cheer, And clap their hands in wild delight. Circassia's Priest, who scorn'd to fear, Bears the applause of Muscovite. But, soldiers, load your guns once more; Load them if ye have time, For ears did hear your cannons roar, To whom it is as sweet bells chime, Inviting to a battle feast. Dark eyes did see the _mitraille_ driven, With murderous intent, 'Gainst the High Priest, to whom was given Protection by offended Heaven, From you on murder bent, Haste, sacrilegious Russian, haste, For behold, their forest-screen they form, With the ominous sounds of a gathering storm. Promptly--swiftly--fatally burst, That storm by Patriot-piety nursed; Down it swept the mountain's side; Fast o'er the plain it pour'd, An avalanche--a deluge wide, O'er the invader roared. A White Horse, like a foaming wave, Dashed forward 'mong the foremost brave, And swift as is the silver light, He arrowy clear'd his way, And cut the mass as clouds a ray. Or meteor piercing night. Aimed at him now was many a lance, No spear could stop his fiery prance, Oft would he seize it with his mouth, With snort and fierce tempestuous froth, While swift the rider would cut down The lanceman rash, and then dash on Among advancing hosts, or flying, Marking his path with foemen dying. Now, the morning after, when The gray light kiss'd the mountain, And down it, like a fountain, Freshly, clearly ran--oh, then The Priest and White Horse rose, So white they scarce threw shade, But now no sacrilegious blows At man nor horse are made. The eyes profane that yester glared, Hung'ring for that sacred life, Were quench'd in yester's fatal strife, And void of meaning stared. No lip could mock--no Russian ear Thanksgiving unto Allah hear, "To Allah, the deliverer!" The mountain look'd unchang'd, the plain is red; Peaceful be the fallen invaders' bed. _Paris._ J.F.C.