Alp looked to heaven, and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky; But his heart was swollen, and turned aside, By deep interminable pride.[qc] This first false passion of his breast Rolled like a torrent o'er the rest. _He_ sue for mercy! _He_ dismayed By wild words of a timid maid! _He_, wronged by Venice, vow to save Her sons, devoted to the grave! 660 No--though that cloud were thunder's worst, And charged to crush him--let it burst! He looked upon it earnestly, Without an accent of reply; He watched it passing; it is flown: Full on his eye the clear moon shone, And thus he spake--"Whate'er my fate, I am no changeling--'tis too late: The reed in storms may bow and quiver, Then rise again; the tree must shiver. 670 What Venice made me, I must be, Her foe in all, save love to thee: But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!" He turned, but she is gone! Nothing is there but the column stone. Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? He saw not--he knew not--but nothing is there. XXII. The night is past, and shines the sun As if that morn were a jocund one.[373] Lightly and brightly breaks away 680 The Morning from her mantle grey,[374] And the Noon will look on a sultry day.[375] Hark to the trump, and the drum, And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, "They come! they come!" The horsetails[376] are plucked from the ground, and the sword From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word. Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 690 Strike your tents, and throng to the van; Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain,[377] That the fugitive may flee in vain, When he breaks from the town; and none escape, Agéd or young, in the Christian shape; While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, Bloodstain the breach through which they pass.[378] The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein; Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; White is the foam of their champ on the bit; 700 The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, And crush the wall they have crumbled before:[379] Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, So is the blade of his scimitar; The Khan and the Pachas are all at their post; The Vizier himself at the head of the host. When the culverin's signal is fired, then on; Leave not in Corinth a living one-- 710 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,