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DEATH-CHANT FOR THE SULTAN MAHMOUD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Raise the song to the mighty, whose glory
Last Line: But thy praise shall not perish, lost mahmoud the last!
Subject(s): Death; Mahmud Ii, Ottoman Sultan (1785-1839); Dead, The


RAISE the song to the mighty, whose glory shall die
When the moon of his empire has dropp'd from the sky;
And if wail be awaken'd for him who smote down
Grim bigotry's Moloch, guilt's bloody renown,
Be it lost in the trumpet's magnificent wo,
From the Bosphorus swelling,
To Christendom telling
That the fiery Rome-tramplers' descendant is low.

By the Prophet! remember his terrible mirth,
When he swept the Janitzars as stubble from earth;
On the domes of Sophia like midnight he stood,
The avenger of Selim's and Mustapha's blood!
Red dogs of rebellion, with tearing and yell
And chain'd valour's despair,
In their own savage lair,
Mow'd down beneath cannon and carbine they fell

Raise the song to the mighty! high Mahmoud whose stroke
In a moment the fetters of centuries broke!
Far kings of the west, how your trophies grow dim
In the light of the fame that awaiteth for him!
The contemner of Korans, who, girded by foes,
The Ark of salvation
First launch'd for his nation,
When the press mid the curses of fanatics rose.

Hu Alla -- hu Alla! the blest caravan
Is in sight from Damascus, and Mecca is wan --
Sheik and Imam are trembling with terror and awe,
For this Cadmus of Caliphs has laugh'd at the law:
Fair painting must sully the Prophet's proud tomb,
For Athene, not loth,
Has left Greece to the Goth,
And planted her arts-shading olive in Roum.

In vain, Ghazi-Sultaun! when Pera's sweet shore
In the blue of Propontis is rosy no more --
When Olympus no longer on Thrace looks abroad,
And the name of the Frank shall not signify fraud,
Then the slaves shall be worthy the war-vest, and then,
When thy spirit imparts
To their recreant hearts
Its grandeur, thy horse-tails may flap over men.

Sound the trump for the mighty! great Allah thy son
With Azrel, the angel unsparing, is gone!
While round his shrunk borders the thunder was growling,
And the Muscovite wolves thickly herded were howling,
And snuffing the gales that, refreshingly cool,
On their merciless thirst
In wild redolence burst,
Where, bulwark'd in gold, blush the brides of Stamboul.

Sound the trump for the mighty! he died ere the tramp
Of the terror-horsed Tartar who dash'd from the camp
Stay'd his soul with the tale that his dastardly hordes
Lay reap'd upon Nekshib, where sickles were swords!
And the lords of the spear's haughty kingdom has past
To the Rebel and Hun!
And the death-song is done:
But thy praise shall not perish, lost Mahmoud the Last!





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