Were smeared, and slippery, stained, and strown
With broken swords and helms o'erthrown:
There were dead above, and the dead below
Lay cold in many a coffined row;
You might see them piled in sable state,
By a pale light through a gloomy grate;
But War had entered their dark caves,
And stored along the vaulted graves
Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread
In masses by the fleshless dead :
Here, throughout the siege, had been
The Christians' chief est magazine; To these a late formed train now led, Minotti's last and stern resource Against the foe's o'envhelming force.
The foe came on, and few remain To strive, and those must strive in vain: For lack of further lives, to slake The thirst of vengeance now awake, With barbarous blows they gash the dead, And lop the already lifeless head, And fell the statues from their niche, And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, And from each other's rude hands wrest The silver vessels saints had blessed. To the high altar on they go; (), but it made a glorious show ! On its table still behold The cup of consecrated gold; Massy and deep, a glittering prize, Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes:
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