XXIX |
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XXIX
Brief breathing-time! the turban`d host,
With added ranks and raging boast,
Press onwards with such strength and heat,
Their numbers balk their own retreat;
For narrow the way that led to the spot
Where still the Christians yielded not;
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try
Through the massy column to turn and fly;
They perforce must do or die.
They die: but ere their eyes could close,
Avengers o`er their bodies rose;
Fresh and furious, fast they fill
The ranks unthinn`d, though slaughter`d still:
And faint the weary Christians wax
Before the still renew`d attacks:
And now the Othmans gain the gate;
Still resists its iron weight,
And still, all deadly aim`d and hot,
From every crevice comes the shot;
From every shatter`d window pour
The volleys of the sulphurous shower:
But the portal wavering grows and weak —
The iron yields, the hinges creak —
It bends — and falls — and all is o`er;
Lost Corinth may resist no more!
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