270
KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.
And 'mid their solemn anthem rise,
Troubling the soft astonished skies,
Deep howls of hate, and yells of pain,
And shrieks of death that pierce the brain,
And fiends' discordant glee,
And clashing steel and oaths of rage,
Vain prayers beneath the sabre's edge,
And shouts of victory.
Amid the rout Hell's master stood,
And saw his work, that it was good.
Troubling the soft astonished skies,
Deep howls of hate, and yells of pain,
And shrieks of death that pierce the brain,
And fiends' discordant glee,
And clashing steel and oaths of rage,
Vain prayers beneath the sabre's edge,
And shouts of victory.
Amid the rout Hell's master stood,
And saw his work, that it was good.
Ha! will the wreaths, slow-rolling by,
Of heavy smoke, for ever lie
Upon that group, and veil its fate,
Which issues from the castle gate?
Now wafts the breeze the rising cloud:
On! on! their foes around them crowd.
Hark! Ulric's voice, like trumpet loud,
His lagging men to chide.
Forward his sable courser springs,
And his dread sword, which terror wings,
As 'gainst each flashing blade it rings,
Drips with the crimson tide.
Of heavy smoke, for ever lie
Upon that group, and veil its fate,
Which issues from the castle gate?
Now wafts the breeze the rising cloud:
On! on! their foes around them crowd.
Hark! Ulric's voice, like trumpet loud,
His lagging men to chide.
Forward his sable courser springs,
And his dread sword, which terror wings,
As 'gainst each flashing blade it rings,
Drips with the crimson tide.
With him, what warrior, fiercely bright,
Cuts his way onward through the fight?
It is Zerrini, and between,
Half 'mid the battle's fury seen
That bold boy-hero! How would start,
O Emmeline! thy mother's heart,
If, with unhelmed brow,
'Mid cannon crash and gory stream,
And whistling ball and sabre gleam,
As in some dark delirious dream,
Thou couldst behold him now;
Couldst mark how near each hot ball hissed
That cheek thy lips so oft have kissed;
And how each sabre's deadly blow
Would deep have cleft that laughing brow,
But for one arm whose watchful blade
Ever like lightning round him played,
Intent from harm to shield.
Cuts his way onward through the fight?
It is Zerrini, and between,
Half 'mid the battle's fury seen
That bold boy-hero! How would start,
O Emmeline! thy mother's heart,
If, with unhelmed brow,
'Mid cannon crash and gory stream,
And whistling ball and sabre gleam,
As in some dark delirious dream,
Thou couldst behold him now;
Couldst mark how near each hot ball hissed
That cheek thy lips so oft have kissed;
And how each sabre's deadly blow
Would deep have cleft that laughing brow,
But for one arm whose watchful blade
Ever like lightning round him played,
Intent from harm to shield.
