II.

On dun Cithæron's ridge appears The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; And downward to the Isthmian plain

From shore to shore of either main,

The tent is pitched, the crescent shines

Along the Moslem'’s leaguering lines; And the dusk Spahi’'s bands advance Beneath each bearded pasha's glance; And far and wide as eye can reach

The turbaned cohorts throng the beach; And there the Arab's camel kneels,

And there his steed the Tartar wheels; The Turcoman hath left his herd,

The sabre round his loins to gird;

And there the volleying thunders pour, Till waves grow smoother to the roar. The trench is dug, the cannon's breath

Wings the far hissing globe of death;