Classic Poem

The sentinel, his weary hours,
Keeps guard in quarantine;
Across the stream, in paths of flowers,
The Turkish maid is seen.

Between, the roaring Danube's tide,
Like death's dark river, rolls,
Whose waters earth and heaven divide,
Mortals and blessed souls.

What things are done in that bright sun,
To those who linger here,
Like memory's lost or hope's unwon
And unborn joys appear.

The flowers that there perfume the air,
So far from him they seem,
As if Heaven's bowers, in long gone hours,
Had shown them in his dream.

The golden fruits that glow among
Yon groves of balm and spice,
Are, in his eyes, as if they hung
On trees of Paradise.

Yon Turkish maid, who walks beside
The pleasant river-shore,
Seems like a gentle ghost to glide,—
A shape of earth no more.

Through the white veil her lustrous eyes
In liquid beauty gleam,
As when, mild-glimmering from the skies,
The stars through cloud-fleece beam.

The soldier kindles at the sight
With such a yearning love,
As draws by night, in full-moon-light,
The wanderer's soul above.

His vision seems about to pass
To that far spirit-land,—
But other images, alas!
Quite earthly, are at hand.

Full many a scout, to-night, is out,
He hears them brushing by;
Bright gleams the steel, and from the heel
Dust-clouds—hoof-lightnings—fly.

In moss-divan, upon the shore,
The Aga's smoke-pipe-cup
See, like a musket-barrel, pour
Its peaceful salvos up!

Then, full of wrath, the soldier grounds
His musket on the shore
So heavily, the welkin sounds
With hollow ring and roar!

‘Shame that these vigorous limbs all day
Must haunt this lazy shore,
Dead as a boundary tree, to play
Nurse at a pest-house door!

‘Your bridges here, come, Pontoneer,
For wagon and for horse!
Come, Commissary, boats for the ferry,
Over with all the force!

‘We, too, must battle for the Lord!
The fight our sires begun,
Yonder, by our good Christian sword,
Must be fought out and won!

‘See on yon mosque the crescent fly!
Sir Captain, what disgrace!
Up, plant the holy cross, there, high,
Far worthier of the place!

‘Sir Priest, you see how error's veil
Shrouds many a lovely brow,
That prays, within the Church's pale,
And aTher font, to bow!’—

Take courage, Faith, be not afraid!
Who would have dreamed, awake,
An unbelieving Turkish maid
Could such good Christians make!