Then I said, my own heart throbbing To the time her proud pulse beat, "Life hath its regal natures yet,-- True, tender, brave, and sweet! "Smile not, fair unbeliever! One man, at least, I know, Who might wear the crest of Bayard Or Sydney's plume of snow. "Once, when over purple mountains Died away the Grecian sun, And the far Cyllenian ranges Paled and darkened, one by one,-- "Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, Cleaving all the quiet sky, And against his sharp steel lightnings Stood the Suliote but to die. "Woe for the weak and halting! The crescent blazed behind A curving line of sabres Like fire before the wind! "Last to fly, and first to rally, Rode he of whom I speak, When, groaning in his bridle path, Sank down like a wounded Greek. "With the rich Albanian costume Wet with many a ghastly stain, Gazing on earth and sky as one Who might not gaze again! "He looked forward to the mountains, Back on foes that never spare, Then flung him from his saddle, And place the stranger there. "'Allah! hu!' Through flashing sabres, Through a stormy hail of lead, The good Thessalian charger Up the slopes of olives sped. "Hot spurred the turbaned riders; He almost felt their breath, Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down Between the hills and death. "One brave and manful struggle,-- He gained the solid land, And the cover of the mountains, And the carbines of his band!" "It was very great and noble," Said the moist-eyed listener then, "But one brave deed makes no hero; Tell me what he since hath been!" "Still a brave and generous manhood, Still and honor without stain, In the prison of the Kaiser, By the barricades of Seine. "But dream not helm and harness The sign of valor true; Peace bath higher tests of manhood Than battle ever knew.