158 BYRON
That morn it held the holy wine,
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine,
Which his worshippers drank at the break of day,
To shrive their souls ere they joined in the fray.
Still a few drops within it lay;
And round the sacred table glow
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row,
From the purest metal cast;
A spoil the richest, and the last.
So near they came, the nearest stretched To grasp the spoil he almost reached,
When old Minotti's hand Touched with the torch the train
'Tis fired ! Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,
The turbaned victors, the Christian band, All that of living or dead remain, Hurl'd on high with the shivered fane,
In one wild roar expired ! The shattered town the walls thrown down The waves a moment backward bent The hills that shake, although unrent,
As if an earthquake passed The thousand shapeless things all driven In cloud and flame athwart the heaven
By that tremendous blast Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er On that too long afflicted shore : Up to the sky like rockets go All that mingled there below:
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