But mighty lord, if that a worm may speak,
Your van, methinks, is of a motley class,
The vile refuge and garbage of the camp;
Are mussulmen led on in glory's path
By such as these?
MAHOMET (smiling fiercely).
May step to glory's path. Garbage, I trust,
Is good enough for filling ditches up.
Some thousand carcases, living and dead,
Of those who first shall glut the en'my's rage,
Push'd in, pell-mell, by those who press behind,
Will rear for us a bridge to mount the breach
Where ablest engineers had work'd in vain.
OSMIR.
And here your highness stations Georgian troops:
Are they sure men in such important service?
MAHOMET (smiling again).
See'st thou what warriors in the rear are plac'd,
With each a cord and hatchet in his hand?
Those grizly hangmen, in their canvass sleeves,
Fight for me better than an armed band
Of christian knights full cap-apée.—Look o'er it:
Something, perchance, may have escap'd my thoughts.
