Viii monologue — Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems

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.