He instinctively clasp’d the muffling vest In many a fold around his face and breast, And both are now disguis’d! one moment more, And they have past yon gold-enamell’d door, 330 And mingled with the throng--and to the sky, Now, they have join’d the gen’ral clam’rous cry. A leader mark’d their garb--their mien--their tone-- Again he turn’d to view them--they are gone.
By Tauris’ walls, along the delving plain, Swift drive young Ismael’s far-extending train; On yonder hill, has paus’d the setting sun, To mark their glories ere his race be run, And loves his splendour o’er their arms to cast, Type of their fame, ere yet that splendour’s past; 340 Forth from the walls, like billows on the deep, In one vast mass the joyous numbers sweep.
“Welcome, great Chief! welcome, the golden hour, “That frees us from the tyger-tyrant’s pow’r; “Welcome, O welcome; see our gates are riv’n, “T’ admit, to welcome thee, O son of heav’n. “O let us shout, O let us gladly sing, “Long life to Ismael, glory to our King!”
Upon a milk-white steed, high Ismael rode, That pranc’d exulting in his mighty load; 350 And that great warrior, cast in Beauty’s mould, Blaz’d like a god-head in his arms of gold. From hill, from vale, around, and from afar, Roll’d the loud music of tremendous war; The awful gong, the trumpet’s brazen tone, And the rough thunder of the tymbalon, The rude, yet rousing clashings of the zel, The hollow blast of Süankos’ shell. While, like some meteor rising here and there, The wide, bright banners wanton’d in the air. 360 Thus, while their welcome path, on every side, All Tauris hails, full royally they ride; And, ’mid the clamours of th’ admiring crowd, That hail th’ auspicious march; yon palace proud (With not a drop of blood upon his sword,) Receives another, and a mightier lord.
Mark’st thou yon banners waving in the gale? Mark’st thou yon troops, that over hill and vale Their martial numbers pour; and, spreading far, Now thirst impatient for the coming war? 370 And mark’st thou, fiercely, there, against them bent, Yon wide, and long, and glorious armament? And mark’st thou too that chief, whose brows appear Like sable clouds, that in night’s dark’ning sphere Hang o’er two blazing stars; whose awful form, Is as some tow’r amid the whelming storm; Whose all-defying mien, whose stern, wild air, Luxuriant Fancy might perhaps compare To angel Eblis, when rebellious driv’n, Destruction breathing, from the courts of heav’n? 380 Who is that warrior?--who!--and can that mien Be e’er forgotten, when once known, once seen? It is Alvante!--Bulwark of the fight, Whose sword is vengeance, and whose arm is might. Who’d safe arrived, with his faithful friend, His care-beguiler, to Armenia’s land; And with Moratcham, whom he had subdued, His rebel brother, he his league renew’d. ’Twere strange to mark their meeting, how they came, Souls fierce as sparkles in the rising flame. 390 How loth to speak the first: each eye-ball’s swell Beam’d on the earth, where scarce it e’er had fell Before; how sullen, like a wayward child, They sooth’d, they soften’d, and they reconcil’d. But well I ween, that spirits proud and strong Like theirs, can never intermingle long. And even now they half-reluctant go, Hand link’d in hand, against a mutual foe, To wage a mutual war.--They part awhile, Moratcham hast’ning to Assyria’s soil, 400 Fresh troops to raise; while to Armenia’s skies, In warlike pride, Alvante’s banners rise, And numbers daily to those banners came, Or led by plunder, or arous’d by fame.