Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

in the Danube, saw the battle

      Of Bucharest?—that—

      HASSAN. Ibrahim’s scimitar

      Drew with its gleam swift victory from Heaven,

      To burn before him in the night of battle—

      A light and a destruction.

      MAHMUD. Ay! the day

      Was ours: but how?—

      HASSAN. The light Wallachians,

      The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian allies

      Fled from the glance of our artillery

      Almost before the thunderstone alit.

      One half the Grecian army made a bridge

      Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead;

      The other—

      MAHMUD. Speak—tremble not.—

      HASSAN. Islanded

      By victor myriads, formed in hollow square

      With rough and steadfast front, and thrice flung back

      The deluge of our foaming cavalry;

      Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our lines.

      Our baffled army trembled like one man

      Before a host, and gave them space; but soon,

      From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed,

      Kneading them down with fire and iron rain.

      Yet none approached; till, like a field of corn

      Under the hook of the swart sickleman,

      The band, intrenched in mounds of Turkish dead,

      Grew weak and few.—Then said the Pacha, ‘Slaves,

      Render yourselves—they have abandoned you—

      What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid?

      We grant your lives.’ ‘Grant that which is thine own!’

      Cried one, and fell upon his sword and died!

      Another—‘God, and man, and hope abandon me;

      But I to them, and to myself, remain

      Constant:’—he bowed his head, and his heart burst.

      A third exclaimed, ‘There is a refuge, tyrant,

      Where thou darest not pursue, and canst not harm

      Shouldst thou pursue; there we shall meet again.’

      Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm,

      The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment

      Among the slain—dead earth upon the earth!

      So these survivors, each by different ways,

      Some strange, all sudden, none dishonourable,

      Met in triumphant death; and when our army

      Closed in, while yet wonder, and awe, and shame

      Held back the base hyaenas of the battle

      That feed upon the dead and fly the living,

      One rose out of the chaos of the slain.

      And if it were a corpse which some dread spirit

      Of the old saviours of the land we rule

      Had lifted in its anger, wandering by;—

      Or if there burned within the dying man

      Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith

      Creating what it feigned;—I cannot tell—

      But he cried, ‘Phantoms of the free, we come!

      Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike

      To dust the citadels of sanguine kings,

      And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts,

      And thaw their frostwork diadems like dew;—

      O ye who float around this clime, and weave

      The garment of the glory which it wears,

      Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasped,

      Lies sepulchred in monumental thought;—

      Progenitors of all that yet is great,

      Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept

      In your high ministrations, us, your sons—

      Us first, and the more glorious yet to come!

      And ye, weak conquerors! giants who look pale

      When the crushed worm rebels beneath your tread,

      The vultures and the dogs, your pensioners tame,

      Are overgorged; but, like oppressors, still

      They crave the relic of Destruction’s feast.

      The exhalations and the thirsty winds

      Are sick with blood; the dew is foul with death;

      Heaven’s light is quenched in slaughter: thus, where’er

      Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets,

      The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast

      Of these dead limbs,—upon your streams and mountains,

      Upon your fields, your gardens, and your housetops,

      Where’er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly,

      Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down

      With poisoned light—Famine, and Pestilence,

      And Panic, shall wage war upon our side!

      Nature from all her boundaries is moved

      Against ye: Time has found ye light as foam.

      The Earth rebels; and Good and Evil stake

      Their empire o’er the unborn world of men

      On this one cast;—but ere the die be thrown,

      The renovated genius of our race,

      Proud umpire of the impious game, descends,

      A seraph-winged Victory, bestriding

      The tempest of the Omnipotence of God,

      Which sweeps all things to their appointed doom,

      And you to oblivion!’—More he would have said,

      But—

      MAHMUD. Died—as thou shouldst ore thy lips had painted

      Their ruin in the hues of our success.

      A rebel’s crime, gilt with a rebel’s tongue!

      Your heart is Greek, Hassan.

      HASSAN. It may be so. A spirit not my own wrenched me within,

      And I have spoken words I fear and hate;

      Yet would I die for—

      MAHMUD. Live! oh live! outlive

      Me and this sinking empire. But the fleet—

      HASSAN. Alas!—

      MAHMUD. The fleet which, like a flock of clouds

      Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent banner!

      Our winged castles from their merchant ships!

      Our myriads before their weak pirate bands!

      Our arms before their chains! our