Vii monologue — Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems

And first D’Avigné rais’d his mighty hand, Bright with the terrors of the wounding brand; Full on the dauntless Briton’s plumy crest The blow descends,--then glances tow’rds the breast; But there it stopt--the sabre’s parrying care Gleam’d cautious down and turn’d the wound to air. The Briton then his weapon rear’d on high, And mark’d the Frenchman with a wary eye; Then sudden swept his vengeful sword around, And stretch’d his victim gasping on the ground; 120 But, as he lay, ere yet the damps of death Had numb’d his arm, or stopp’d his fleeting breath, Against the charger of his conq’ring foe, Full on the chest, he strikes the griding blow[21]; The noble beast, convuls’d by piercing pain, Rear’d his proud form, and shook his flowing mane, Then instant fell--and from the mortal wound, The gushing life’s-blood issued on the ground; Full on his noble master, ere he rose, On ev’ry side resound a hundred blows-- 130 A hundred lances glitter at his breast-- A hundred strokes re-echo on his crest; He strikes--retreats--advances--strives in vain, And adds another to the heaps of slain. Thus falls some tow’r which long has rear’d its form, And mock’d the fury of the raging storm: The fierce besiegers strive each art in vain, To cast its lofty fabric on the plain; At length the treach’rous mine, with secret care, Beneath its strong foundations they prepare; 140 With horrid crash, its crackling piles resound, And fall, a mighty ruin on the ground.