"This so will be! and neither fleet nor fort Can stay or aid thee as the deathly port Receives thy harried frame! Though, like the cunning Hebrew knave of old, To cheat the angel black, thou didst enfold In altered guise thy name." Ali deemed anchorite or saint a pawn-- The crater of his blunderbuss did yawn, Sword, dagger hung at ease: But he had let the holy man revile, Though clouds o'erswept his brow; then, with a smile, He tossed him his pelisse. THE LOST BATTLE. _("Allah! qui me rendra-")_ [XVI., May, 1828.] Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array? My emirs and my cavalry that shook the earth to-day; My tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight, Whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of night, Seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours, As heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in showers? Where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay, And where my fierce Timariot bands, so fearless in the fray; My dauntless khans, my spahis brave, swift thunderbolts of war; My sunburnt Bedouins, trooping from the Pyramids afar, Who laughed to see the laboring hind stand terrified at gaze, And urged their desert horses on amid the ripening maize? These horses with their fiery eyes, their slight untiring feet, That flew along the fields of corn like grasshoppers so fleet-- What! to behold again no more, loud charging o'er the plain, Their squadrons, in the hostile shot diminished all in vain, Burst grandly on the heavy squares, like clouds that bear the storms, Enveloping in lightning fires the dark resisting swarms! Oh! they are dead! their housings bright are trailed amid their gore; Dark blood is on their manes and sides, all deeply clotted o'er; All vainly now the spur would strike these cold and rounded flanks, To wake them to their wonted speed amid the rapid ranks: Here the bold riders red and stark upon the sands lie down, Who in their friendly shadows slept throughout the halt at noon. Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array? See where it straggles 'long the fields for leagues on leagues away, Like riches from a spendthrift's hand flung prodigal to earth. Lo! steed and rider;--Tartar chiefs or of Arabian birth, Their turbans and their cruel course, their banners and their cries, Seem now as if a troubled dream had passed before mine eyes-- My valiant warriors and their steeds, thus doomed to fall and bleed! Their voices rouse no echo now, their footsteps have no speed; They sleep, and have forgot at last the sabre and the bit-- Yon vale, with all the corpses heaped, seems one wide charnel-pit. Long shall the evil omen rest upon this plain of dread--