The Knickerbocker Gallery/The Death of Ulric
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Theo. S. Fay
The Death of Ulric.
A FRAGMENT FROM THE LAST CANTO OF "ULRIC, OR THE VOICES."
By Theodore S. Fay.
[The following fragment is the concluding canto of the second unpublished part of a poem written in 1846 and 47. The first part appeared under the name of "Ulric; or, the Voices." There is a period of ten years between the two parts. Emmeline's son, Fritz, has grown into a youth of nineteen. In rather a strong contrast to the present state of the eastern continent, where a now crusade appears being organized, not against, but in favor of Islamism, the Ottoman government, after possessing itself of the most beautiful and celebrated countries of the ancient oriental world, conceived the ambitious design of subjugating Europe to the faith of the Prophet. Weakened and distracted by civil wars, the Christian princes might well tremble to behold Constantinople the seat of the Sultan, and the Crescent advancing to Venice, Vienna, and Bavaria. Solyman II., furious at his defeat by the knights of St. John, in the island of Malta, had invaded Hungary with a powerful army, and laid siege to Sigeth, the bulwark of Styria against the Turk.
Ulric had promised to join his standard to that of the noble Count Zerrini (according to a custom of those days) whenever the Turkish forces should again threaten Europe. He reached Sigeth with his force just before the formidable army had approached its walls. Both Ulric and Zerrini believed that the European Maximillian II., who lay in the neighborhood with an army not inferior to that of the besiegers, would at least attempt its relief; and on the supposition that so noble an enterprise would be almost certainly victorious, and would open a brilliant career to the son of Emmeline, he had taken him as one of his aides. Arrived at Sigeth, it transpired that the Emperor had resolved not to aid the city; and death now stared in the face of every one within the fatal walls of Sigeth. The canto opens at the moment when Zerrini and Ulric had adopted the desperate expedient of cutting their way out. This celebrated action of Zerrini is a well-known historical incident. The Turks left 30,000 dead on the field. Solyman died during the siege. His successor granted Maximillian a twelve years' truce. Zerrini, as the poem relates, fell while cutting his way out of the fortress.]
But that which Hell to earth has given.
Hark! peal on peal resound!
Where the hot battle fiercely burns,
The cannon's fiery fury turns
On Sigeth's gate. Hark! madly tear
Each crash along the broken air.
Death and destruction madly glare,
And shake the affrighted ground.
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.
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.
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.
If once, amid that iron rain,
Yon broken bridge their steeds can gain,
They 're safe—yet no! They strive in vain,
'T is their last battle-field.
Their foes give way, and bite the ground,
And like some strong uprooted oak,
Contending with the blast,
Slow yielding to the tempest stroke,
Now wavering 'mid the billowy smoke,
That torn and flaunting Crescent look!
Stoops to the dust at last.
Erect, Zerrini's glorious form
Uptowers like a god.
"With shout, resounding wild and far
Above the mad discordant war,
He cheers his men, "On! on! hurrah!"
But, now, St. Steven! to the ground,
Borne, like the stag, by fierce blood-hound,
O'erwhelmed with many a mortal wound
He falls, our eyes no more to greet,
Crushed 'mid wild horses' iron feet,
A trampled, broken clod.
Now Ulric and the boy are down!
But no! they rise; o'er heaps of slain
Forward their snorting chargers strain;
The masses break apart again.
Their foes, they reel; they fly!
With their sharp swords they cut their way,
Uninjured, through the reckless fray.
The bridge! the bridge! they gain the day!
"On! death or victory!"
Beware that furious, hot onset,
With flaming eyes, together four
Against thee rush. One struggle more!
Thrice the sharp sabre to thy brow!
Thrice Ulric's swift hand wards the blow—
Wards and avenges well—for low
They lie who struck. Each recreant dies!
But e'er his Arab steed he pressed
He turned to aim at Fritz's breast
One winged ball of hate.
Now, Ulric! speed! In Sultan's flank,
Deep, deep the spur, encrimsoned, sank,
Alas! too late! too late!
He sees his sword, so swift and keen,
All useless now, but rides between,
With one convulsive bound;
And then the flash, the smoke, the shout,
The clear report rang sharply out,
The deadly messenger he feels;
Starts sudden, in his saddle reels,
Then sinks upon the ground!
Fritz springs to save him! sees, oh Death!
Thy heavy hand ! Thy failing breath,
Thy smothered groan of pain!
To stanch, he strives, the bubbling blood,
Outgushing in a swollen flood,
A dreadful task, and vain.
"Oh, general! Oh, fatal strife!
For mine thou gavest thy precious life!
The ball was meant for me!"
"That flying fellow sent it home,
His aim was good; my hour hath come—
My hour of victory."
The hue, that all the battle stood;
And dropped his blinded eyes.
"Oh, fatal, fatal day!" he said,
As o'er that brow the death-damp spread;
And still streamed forth the purple tide;
"So late, aloft, I saw him ride,
In all life's grandeur and its pride;
Now, here he lies."
Each moment ebbed his life away,
The helm unloosed, the forehead bare,
Upraised to Heaven in silent prayer.
Then gently spoke: "Dear Fritz, no, no,
'T is vain, 't is vain; let—let it flow!
Weep not for me. Death is no theme
For weeping. It most sweet doth seem
To yield my breath.
Oh! nothing in this world hath been
So slandered, with thy friendly mien,
Thy face, so hopeful, so serene,
As thou, oh Death!"
"Sweet, pitying Heaven! my heart will break!
"My breath, it fails; poor Sultan take
My parting gift, and for my sake
Be gentle with him, Fritz; and when
Thou reachest Rudolstadt again,
And ridest him, all joyous, on
Through wood and vale, o'er hill and lawn,
Each sylvan path I see!
The mossy steep, the silent wood,
Look ! how the yellow golden flood,
The very spot on which we stood,
Bid her remember me."
"Oh, dearest friend! oh, gracious Heaven!
His senses wander ———"
"I have striven,
Not all in vain, end now the spell
I break at last. Sweet boy, farewell!
Thy hand! I die—all cold—all dark!
My blessing to thy m———. Hark! hark!
They call! what bright forms round me gather!
Ha! yes; my blessing to thy father!"
Oh Death! how beautiful, how still!
As if some sculptor's wondrous skill,
Out of the cold and lifeless stone
That noble warrior form had hewn.
Over the marble features stole
A light, as rose the parting soul,
And then, descending o'er the plain,
Floats softly an angelic strain
Of voices airy sweet, that seem
A loving thought, a tender dream.
It lingers not, that passing choir,
But slow recedes, and rises higher,
Fainter and fainter; now it dies,
Uncertain, in the farthest skies.
Ulric, farewell! Thy painful task is done,
Thy battle with the Prince of Hell is won.
Faith's narrow path thy child-like soul hath trod,
Thou hast believed, obeyed, and worshipped God.
Beyond the reach of wearying sin hath passed,
From its hard warfare with Hell's potent might;
Good against evil; darkness against light.
Victorious o'er the world, its sorrows ended,
And through Death's gates by angel forms attended.
Or high or low, or rich or poor, thy part,
Thus, in its hour, thy spirit, too, may rise
From earth's short sufferings to the happy skies,
If thou but care to choose aright between
The curse and blessing of this lower scene;
If thou but mark, as by God's help we may,
Hell's filthy laughter, as thou go'st astray,
And the clear voices calling thee again,
With many a secret tone and thrilling strain,
Voices, perchance, now floating, faint and far,
From some light cloud or quiet gazing star.
While now, with trumpet tones, they burst and roll
Up from the depths of thy eternal soul,
Oh mortal! listen to them. Learn to know
Those earnest voices, whencesoe'er they flow.
Watch for them! Listen! Mark them and obey!
Follow not thou the Evil One's soft way,
For all his art can give. When, at thy side,
He stands and whispers thoughts of lust and pride,
From his vile spells, by prayer thy spirit free,
And break away, how sweet soe'er they be.
For sweet, oh God! they are, and his old throne
Too firmly set for thee to move alone.
Oh, sorcerer! full many a wondrous charm
He knows to banish doubt and hush alarm,
Thy eyes to veil, and so to sway thy thought,
Clasped in his arms, thou still believest not.
All bright things of the earth, oh! mystery!
Are sometimes lent, his instruments to be;
Nature's fair visions, music, moonlight, love;
All that they will may captivate and move,
Soft vales and mountains, summer-days and flowers.
And golden hopes that wing youth's airy hours,
Science and taste and intellect refined,
The noble heart and the aspiring mind,
The fatal trust in conscious innocence
Whatever wakes the soul, or wins the sense,
There lies the dark foe 'mid the roses curled.
But One alone can overcome the world.