A blazing home, a blood-soaked hearth; Fair woman's hair with blood upon! That Ishmaelite of all the earth Has like a cyclone, come and gone -- His feet are as the blighting dearth; His hands are daggers drawn. "To horse! to horse!" the rangers shout, And red revenge is on his track! The black-haired Bedouin en route Looks like a long, bent line of black. He does not halt nor turn about; He scorns to once look back. But on! right on that line of black, Across the snow-white, sand-sown pass; The bearded rangers on their track Bear thirsty sabers bright as glass. Yet not one red man there looks back; His nerves are braided brass. At last, at last, their mountain came To clasp its children in their flight! Up, up from out the sands of flame They clambered, bleeding to their height; This savage summit, now so tame, Their lone star, that dread night! "Huzzah! Dismount!" the captain cried. "Huzzah! the rovers cease to roam! The river keeps yon farther side, A roaring cataract of foam. They die, they die for those who died Last night by hearth and home!" His men stood still beneath the steep; The high, still moon stood like a nun. The horses stood as willows weep; Their weary heads drooped every one. But no man there had thought of sleep; Each waited for the sun. Vast nun-white moon! Her silver rill Of snow-white peace she ceaseless poured; The rock-built battlement grew still, The deep-down river roared and roared. But each man there with iron will Leaned silent on his sword. Hark! See what light starts from the steep! And hear, ah, hear that piercing sound. It is their lorn death-song they keep In solemn and majestic round. The red fox of these deserts deep At last is run to ground. Oh, it was weird, -- that wild, pent horde! Their death-lights, their death-wails each one. The river in sad chorus roared And boomed like some great funeral gun. The while each ranger nursed his sword And waited for the sun. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WINTER NIGHT SONG by SARA TEASDALE SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 2 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY ON A CHILD SLEEPING IN CYNTHIA'S LAP by PHILIP AYRES THE ADIEU, TO A FRIEND LEAVING SUFFOLK by BERNARD BARTON SUMMER by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN THE HOUSE OF FAME by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |