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XXIV
As the spring-tides, with heavy splash,
From the cliffs invading dash
Huge fragments, sapp`d by the ceaseless flow,
Till white and thundering down they go,
Like the avalanche`s snow
On the Alpine vales below;
Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,
Corinth`s sons were downward borne
By the long and oft-renew`d
Charge of the Moslem multitude.
In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,
Heap`d, by the host of the infidel,
Hand to hand, and foot to foot:
Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter, or for victory,
Mingle there with the volleying thunder,
Which makes the distant cities wonder
How the sounding battle goes,
If with them, or for their foes;
If they must mourn, or may rejoice
In that annihilating voice,
Which pierces the deep hills through and through
With an echo dread and new:
You might have heard it, on that day,
O`er Salamis and Megara;
(We have heard the hearers say,)
Even unto Pirĉus` bay.
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