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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Greece and Turkey in Europe: Vol. XIX. 1876–79.

Turkey in Europe, and the Principalities: Kacelyevo

The Last Redoubt

By Alfred Austin (1835–1913)

KACELYEVO’S slope still felt

The cannon’s bolts and the rifles’ pelt;

For a last redoubt up the hill remained,

By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.

Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;

His lips were clinched and his look was weird;

Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,

Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.

“Clear me the Muscovite out!” he cried.

Then the name of “Allah!” echoed wide,

And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered,

And on to the last redoubt they poured.

One fell, and a second quickly stopped

The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped;

The second,—a third straight filled his place;

The third,—and a fourth kept up the race.

Many a fez in the mud was crushed,

Many a throat that cheered was hushed,

Many a heart that sought the crest

Found Allah’s arms and a houri’s breast.

Over their corpses the living sprang,

And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,

Till the faces that lined the last redoubt

Could see their faces and hear their shout.

In the redoubt a fair form towered,

That cheered up the brave and chid the coward;

Brandishing blade with a gallant air,

His head erect and his bosom bare.

“Fly! they are on us!” his men implored;

But he waved them on with his waving sword.

“It cannot be held; ’t is no shame to go!”

But he stood with his face set hard to the foe.

Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt;

He drew a pistol from out his belt,

And fired it blank at the first that set

Foot on the edge of the parapet.

Over that first one toppled: but on

Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone;

As hurriedly fled his men dismayed,

Not a bayonet’s length from the length of his blade.

“Yield!” But aloft his steel he flashed,

And down on their steel it ringing clashed;

Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt,

His honor full, but his life-blood spilt.

They lifted him up from the dabbled ground;

His limbs were shapely and soft and round,

No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade,—

“Bismillah!” they cried, “’t is an infidel maid!”

Mehemet Ali came and saw

The riddled breast and the tender jaw.

“Make her a bier of your arms,” he said,

“And daintily bury this dainty dead!

“Make her a grave where she stood and fell,

’Gainst the jackal’s scratch and the vulture’s smell.

Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight,

In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night.”

So a deeper trench ’mong the trenches there

Was dug, for the form as brave as fair;

And none, till the judgment trump and shout,

Shall drive her out of the Last Redoubt.