previous next

[82] Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder,
     Cleaving all the quiet sky,
And against his sharp steel lightnings
     Stood the Suliote but to die.

Woe for the weak and halting!
     The crescent blazed behind
A curving line of sabres,
     Like fire before the wind!

Last to fly, and first to rally,
     Rode he of whom I speak,
When, groaning in his bridle-path,
     Sank down a wounded Greek.

With the rich Albanian costume
     Wet with many a ghastly stain,
Gazing on earth and sky as one
     Who might not gaze again!

He looked forward to the mountains,
     Back on foes that never spare,
Then flung him from his saddle,
     And placed the stranger there.

“ Allah I hu!” Through flashing sabres,
     Through a stormy hail of lead,
The good Thessalian charger
     Up the slopes of olives sped.

Hot spurred the turbaned riders;
     He almost felt their breath,

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License.

An XML version of this text is available for download, with the additional restriction that you offer Perseus any modifications you make. Perseus provides credit for all accepted changes, storing new additions in a versioning system.

hide Places (automatically extracted)

View a map of the most frequently mentioned places in this document.

Download Pleiades ancient places geospacial dataset for this text.

hide Display Preferences
Greek Display:
Arabic Display:
View by Default:
Browse Bar: