| |
| KACELYEVO’S slope still felt | |
| The cannon’s bolts and the rifles’ pelt; | |
| For a last redoubt up the hill remained, | |
| By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained. | |
| |
| Mehemet Ali stroked his beard; | 5 |
| His lips were clinched and his look was weird; | |
| Round him were ranks of his ragged folk, | |
| Their faces blackened with blood and smoke. | |
| |
| “Clear me the Muscovite out!” he cried. | |
| Then the name of “Allah!” echoed wide, | 10 |
| And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered, | |
| And on to the last redoubt they poured. | |
| |
| One fell, and a second quickly stopped | |
| The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped; | |
| The second,—a third straight filled his place; | 15 |
| The third,—and a fourth kept up the race. | |
| |
| Many a fez in the mud was crushed, | |
| Many a throat that cheered was hushed, | |
| Many a heart that sought the crest | |
| Found Allah’s arms and a houri’s breast. | 20 |
| |
| Over their corpses the living sprang, | |
| And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang, | |
| Till the faces that lined the last redoubt | |
| Could see their faces and hear their shout. | |
| |
| In the redoubt a fair form towered, | 25 |
| That cheered up the brave and chid the coward; | |
| Brandishing blade with a gallant air, | |
| His head erect and his bosom bare. | |
| |
| “Fly! they are on us!” his men implored; | |
| But he waved them on with his waving sword. | 30 |
| “It cannot be held; ’t is no shame to go!” | |
| But he stood with his face set hard to the foe. | |
| |
| Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt; | |
| He drew a pistol from out his belt, | |
| And fired it blank at the first that set | 35 |
| Foot on the edge of the parapet. | |
| |
| Over that first one toppled: but on | |
| Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone; | |
| As hurriedly fled his men dismayed, | |
| Not a bayonet’s length from the length of his blade. | 40 |
| |
| “Yield!” But aloft his steel he flashed, | |
| And down on their steel it ringing clashed; | |
| Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt, | |
| His honor full, but his life-blood spilt. | |
| |
| They lifted him up from the dabbled ground; | 45 |
| His limbs were shapely and soft and round, | |
| No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade,— | |
| “Bismillah!” they cried, “’t is an infidel maid!” | |
| |
| Mehemet Ali came and saw | |
| The riddled breast and the tender jaw. | 50 |
| “Make her a bier of your arms,” he said, | |
| “And daintily bury this dainty dead! | |
| |
| “Make her a grave where she stood and fell, | |
| ’Gainst the jackal’s scratch and the vulture’s smell. | |
| Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight, | 55 |
| In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night.” | |
| |
| So a deeper trench ’mong the trenches there | |
| Was dug, for the form as brave as fair; | |
| And none, till the judgment trump and shout, | |
| Shall drive her out of the Last Redoubt. | 60 |
| |
