CRUEL and wild the battle: Great horses plunged and reared, And through dust-cloud and smoke-cloud, Blood-red with sunset's angry flush, You heard the gun-shots rattle, And, 'mid hoof-tramp and rush, The shrieks of women speared. For it was Russ and Turcoman, -- No quarter asked or given; A whirl of frenzied hate and death Across the desert driven. Look! the half-naked horde gives way, Fleeing frantic without breath, Or hope, or will; and on behind The troopers storm, in blood-thirst blind, While, like a dreadful fountain-play, The swords flash up, and fall, and slay -- Wives, grandsires, baby brows and gray, Groan after groan, yell upon yell -- Are men but fiends, and is earth hell? Nay, for out of the flight and fear Spurs a Russian cuirassier; In his arms a child he bears. Her little foot bleeds; stern she stares Back at the ruin of her race. The small hurt creature sheds no tear, Nor utters cry; but clinging still To this one arm that does not kill, She stares back with her baby face. Apart, fenced round with ruined gear, The hurrying horseman finds a space, Where, with face crouched upon her knee, A woman cowers. You see him stoop And reach the child down tenderly, Then dash away to join his troop. How came one pulse of pity there -- One heart that would not slay, but save -- In all that Christ-forgotten sight? Was there, far north by Neva's wave, Some Russian girl in sleep-robes white, Making her peaceful evening prayer, That Heaven's great mercy 'neath its care Would keep and cover him to-night? |