Service in Servia under the Red cross, by E. M. Pearson and L.E. McLaughlin (Google eBook)

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1877
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Page 362 - mid mounds, 'mid moles, 'mid murderous mines ! Now noisy noxious numbers notice nought Of outward obstacles, opposing ought. Poor patriots ! partly purchased, partly pressed, Quite quaking, quickly " Quarter ! quarter !
Page 365 - He knew that trumpet's Turkish wail, His guide through many a forest vale, "When, scattering like the hunted deer, The Moslem felt his early spear. He heard it when the Servian targe Broke down the Delhi's desperate charge, And o'er the flight his scimitar Was like the flashing of a star.
Page 366 - To give his axe the wider sweep. Down came the blow ! the self-same smile Was lingering on the dead lip still, When, 'mid the train, the pikeman bore The bloody head of the Pandour. The night was wild, the atabal Scarce echoed on the rampart wall ; Scarce heard the shrinking sentinel The night-horn in the tempest's yell.
Page 361 - An Austrian army, awfully arrayed. Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade: Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction's devastating doom.
Page 366 - Swelled on his prophet ear no clang Of tribes that to their saddles sprang ? No Russian cannon's heavy hail, In vengeance smiting the Serail ? The whole was but a moment's trance, That 'scaped the turban'd rabble's glance.
Page 364 - From his large eye draws back in awe; All tongues are silent in the group Who round that fearful stranger troop. He still has homage ; though his hands Are straining in a felon's bands. No Moslem he : his brow is bare, Save one wild tress of raven hair, Like a black serpent deeply bound, Where once sat Servia's golden round ; His neck bends low, and many a stain Of blood, shows how it feels the chain.
Page 365 - Beam'd o'er a cross ! his eye shot fire ; That cross was o'er the crescent set, The day he won the coronet. He dash'd away a tear of pride, His hand was darted to his side, No sword was there : a bitter smile Told the stern spirit's final thrill ; Yet all not agony ; afar, Mark'd he no cloud of northern war ? Swell'd on his prophet ear no clang Of tribes that to their saddles sprang ? No Russian cannon's heavy hail In vengeance smiting the Serail?
Page 364 - All tongues are silent in the group Who round that fearful stranger troop : He still has homage, though his hands Are straining in a felon's bands. No Moslem he ; his brow is bare, Save one wild tress of raven hair, Like a black serpent deeply bound, Where once sat Servia's golden round. His neck bends low, and many a stain Of blood shows how it feels the chain ; A peasant's robe is o'er him flung, A swordless sheath beside him hung; He sits a charger, but a slave Now holds the bridle of the brave....
Page 367 - Twas like the hymn, when soldiers bear A soldier to his sepulchre. * * * * * The lightning threw a shaft below, The stately square was desert now. Yet far, as far as eye could strain, Was seen the remnant of a train ; A wavering shadow of a crowd, That round some noble burden bow'd.
Page 365 - Then, like the iron in the forge, Blazed thy dark visage, CZERNI GEORGE ! He knew that trumpet's Turkish wail, His guide through many a forest vale, When, scattering like the hunted deer, The Moslem felt his early spear ; He heard it when the Servian targe Broke down the Delhi's desperate charge, And o'er the flight his...

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