Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, And risen again, and found them grappling yet; While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze, Smoke up to Heaven—hot as that crimson haze, By which the prostrate Caravan is aw’d,[120] In the red Desert, when the wind’s abroad. “On, Swords of God!” the panting CALIPH calls,— “Thrones for the living—Heaven for him who falls!” “On, brave avengers, on,” MOKANNA cries, “And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!” Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day— They clash—they strive—the CALIPH’S troops give way! MOKANNA’S self plucks the black Banner down, And now the Orient World’s Imperial crown Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout! Some hand hath check’d the flying Moslem’s rout; And now they turn, they rally—at their head A warrior, (like those angel youths who led, In glorious panoply of Heaven’s own mail, The Champions of the Faith through BEDER’S vale,[121]) Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, Turns on the fierce pursuers’ blades, and drives At once the multitudinous torrent back— While hope and courage kindle in his track; And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes Terrible vistas through which victory breaks! In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight, Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night, Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, Leave only her unshaken in the sky— In vain he yells his desperate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends that fly, And seems of _all_ the Great Arch-enemy. The panic spreads—“A miracle!” throughout The Moslem ranks, “a miracle!” they shout, All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams; And every sword, true as o’er billows dim The needle tracks the load-star, following him! Right tow’rds MOKANNA now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o’er Him, the mightiest and the worst! But vain his speed—though, in that hour of blood, Had all God’s seraphs round MOKANNA stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, MOKANNA’S soul would have defied them all; Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries even _him_ along; In vain he struggles ’mid the wedg’d array Of flying thousands—he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows, In this forc’d flight, is—murdering as he goes! As a grim tiger, whom the torrent’s might Surprises in some parch’d ravine at night, Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks, Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, And, to the last, devouring on his way, Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay.