His plan of attack was successful indeed!

The night was his own--the town it was gone; 'Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone.

[Whereof the bells began to ring.]

One building alone had escaped from the fires, Saint Sophy's fair church, with its steeples and spires, Calm, stately, and white, It stood in the light; And as if 'twould defy all the conqueror's power,-- As if nought had occurred, Might clearly be heard The chimes ringing soberly every half-hour!

XVI.

The city was defunct--silence succeeded Unto its last fierce agonizing yell; And then it was the conqueror first heeded The sound of these calm bells.

[How the Cossack chief bade them burn the church too.]

Furious towards his aides-de-camp he turns, And (speaking as if Byron's works he knew) "Villains!" he fiercely cries, "the city burns, Why not the temple too?

Burn me yon church, and murder all within!"

[How they stormed it, and of Hyacinth, his anger thereat.]

The Cossacks thundered at the outer door; And Father Hyacinth, who, heard the din, (And thought himself and brethren in distress, Deserted by their lady patroness) Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes outpour.

XVII.

[His prayer to the Saint Sophia.]

"And is it thus, O falsest of the saints, Thou hearest our complaints?

Tell me, did ever my attachment falter To serve thy altar?

Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep, The last upon my lip?

Was not thy name the very first that broke From me when I awoke?

Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance, And mortified countenance For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight?

And lo! this night, Forgetful of my prayers, and thine own promise, Thou turnest from us; Lettest the heathen enter in our city, And, without pity, Murder out burghers, seize upon their spouses, Burn down their houses!

Is such a breach of faith to be endured?

See what a lurid Light from the insolent invader's torches Shines on your porches!

E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer And hideous clamor; With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen, The conquering foemen, O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears, Alas! and here's A humble company of pious men, Like muttons in a pen, Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted, Because in you they trusted.

Do you not know the Calmuc chiefs desires-- KILL ALL THE FRIARS!

And you, of all the saints most false and fickle, Leave us in this abominable pickle."

[The statue suddenlie speaks;]

"RASH HYACINTHUS!"

(Here, to the astonishment of all her backers, Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws, Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers, Began), "I did not think you had been thus,-- O monk of little faith! Is it because A rascal sc.u.m of filthy Cossack heathen Besiege our town, that you distrust in ME, then?

Think'st thou that I, who in a former day Did walk across the Sea of Marmora (Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas),-- That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes, Without so much as wetting of my toes, Am frightened at a set of men like THOSE?

I have a mind to leave you to your fate: Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires."

[But is interrupted by the breaking in of the Cossacks.]

Saint Sophy was here Cut short in her words,-- For at this very moment in tumbled the gate, And with a wild cheer, And a clashing of swords, Swift through the church porches, With a waving of torches, And a shriek and a yell Like the devils of h.e.l.l, With pike and with axe In rushed the Cossacks,-- In rushed the Cossacks, crying, "MURDER THE FRIARS!"

[Of Hyacinth, his outrageous address;]

Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth, When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc!

Now, thought he, my trial beginneth; Saints, O give me courage and pluck!

"Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk!"

Thus unto the friars he began: "Never let it be said that a monk Is not likewise a gentleman.

Though the patron saint of the church, Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd, Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch, Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid!"

[And preparation for dying.]

As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke, He, with an air as easy and as free as If the quick-coming murder were a joke, Folded his robes around his sides, and took Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak, Like Caesar at the statue of Pompeius.

The monks no leisure had about to look (Each being absorbed in his particular case), Else had they seen with what celestial race A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany face.

[Saint Sophia, her speech.]

"Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son!"

Thus spoke the sainted statue.

"Though you doubted me in the hour of need, And spoke of me very rude indeed, You deserve good luck for showing such pluck, And I won't be angry at you."

[She gets on the prior's shoulder straddle-back,]

The monks by-standing, one and all, Of this wondrous scene beholders, To this kind promise listened content, And couldn't contain their astonishment, When Saint Sophia moved and went Down from her wooden pedestal, And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs, Round Hyacinthus's shoulders!

[And bids him run.]

"Ho! forwards," cried Sophy, "there's no time for waiting, The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in: See the glare of their torches shines red through the grating; We've still the back door, and two minutes or more.

Now boys, now or never, we must make for the river, For we only are safe on the opposite sh.o.r.e.

Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,-- Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man; And I'll lay five to two that you carry us through, Only scamper as fast as you can."

XVIII.

[He runneth,]

Away went the priest through the little back door, And light on his shoulders the image he bore: The honest old priest was not punished the least, Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four.

Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail; And just as the last at the back door had pa.s.sed, In furious hunt behold at the front The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers; With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and spears, With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in.

They tore up the ma.s.s-book, they stamped on the psalter, They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar; The vestments they burned with their blasphemous fires, And many cried, "Curse on them! where are the friars?"

When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more, One chanced to fling open the little back door, Spied out the friars' white robes and long shadows In the moon, scampering over the meadows, And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their arsons, By crying out l.u.s.tily, "THERE GO THE PARSONS!"

[And the Tartars after him.]

With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout, At once the whole murderous body turned out; And swift as the hawk pounces down on the pigeon, Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion.

[How the friars sweated.]

When the sound of that cheering came to the monks' hearing, O heaven! how the poor fellows panted and blew!

At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running, When the Tartars came up, what the deuce should they do?

"They'll make us all martyrs, those bloodthirsty Tartars!"