Classic Poem

'Twas noon! a blood-red banner play'd
Above thy rampart porte, Belgrade;
From time to time the gong's deep swell
Rose thundering from the citadel;
And soon the trampling charger's din
Told of some mustering pomp within.
But all without was still and drear,
The long streets wore the hue of fear,
All desert, but where some quick eye
Peer'd from the curtain'd gallery.
Or crouching slow from roof to roof,
The Servian glanced, then shrank aloof,
Eager, yet dreading to look on
The business to be that day done.
The din grew louder, crowding feet
Seem'd rushing to the central street;
'Twas fill'd; the city's idle brood
Scatter'd before, few, haggard, rude:
Then come the Spahis bounding on
With kettle-drum and gonfalon;
And ever, at the cymbal's clash,
Upshook their spears the sudden flash,
Till, like a shatter'd, sable sail,
Wheel'd o'er their rear the black horse-tail,
All hurrying on, like men who yield,
Or men who seek, some final field.

They lead a captive; the Pashaw
From his large eye draws back with awe;
All tongues are silent in the group,
Who round that fearful stranger troop:
He still has homage, though his hands
Are straining in a felon's bands.

No Moslem he; his brow is bare,
Save one wild tress of raven hair,
Like a black serpent deeply bound,
Where once sat Servia's golden round.
His neck bends low, and many a stain
Of blood shows how it feels the chain;
A peasant's robe is o'er him flung,
A swordless sheath beside him hung;
He sits a charger, but a slave
Now holds the bridle of the brave.


And now they line the palace-square,
A splendid sight, as noon's full glare
Pours on their proud eaparison,
Arms rough with gold and dazzling stone,
Horse-nets, and shawls of Indian dye,
O'er brows of savage majesty.
But where 's the fetter'd rider now?
A flag above, a block below,
An Ethiop headsman low'ring near,
Show where must close his stern career.

A thousand eyes are fix'd to mark
The fading of his eye's deep spark,
The quicken'd heaving of his breast;
But all within it is at rest:
There is no quivering nerve; his brow
Scarce bent upon the crowd below,
He stands in settled, stately gloom,
A warrior's statue on his tomb.