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XV
Not mindless of these mighty times
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes;
And through this night, as on he wander`d,
And o`er the past and present ponder`d,
And thought upon the glorious dead
Who there in better cause had bled,
He felt how faint and feebly dim
The fame that could accrue to him,
Who cheer`d the band, and waved the sword
A traitor in a turban`d horde;
And led them to the lawless siege,
Whose best success were sacrilege.
Not so had those his fancy number`d,
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber`d;
Their phalanx marshall`d on the plain,
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain.
They fell devoted, but undying;
The very gale their names seem`d sighing:
The waters murmur`d of their name;
The woods were peopled with their fame;
The silent pillar, lone and gray,
Claim`d kindred with their sacred clay;
Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain,
Their memory sparkled o`er the mountain,
The meanest rill, the mightiest river,
Roll`d mingling with their fame for ever.
Despite of every yoke she bears,
That land is glory`s still, and theirs!
When man would do a deed of worth
He points to Greece, and turns to tread,
So sanction`d, on the tyrant`s head:
He looks to her, and rushes on
Where life is lost, or freedom won.
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