Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 1. No 1, June 1850

One would have said that human life,
Save that of shepherds tending flocks,
Breathed not among yon silent rocks.

What Spectre, gliding tow'rd the rays
Of rising sun, meets Russian gaze,
And is it fright, amaze, or awe,
Distends each eye and hangs each jaw?

A Horse, as snow on mountain height,
His master clothed all, too, in white,
Moved slowly up the mountain's side,
Arching his neck in conscious pride.
And though the cannon pointed stood,
Charged with its slumb'ring lava flood,
The rider gave no spur nor stroke,
Nor did he touch the rein which lay
Upon the horse's neck – who yoke
Of spur nor rein did e'er obey.
His master's voice he knew – the horse,
And by it checked or strain'd his course.
But even no voice was needed now,
For when he reach'd the mountain's brow,
He halted while his master spread
His arms full wide, threw back his head,
And pour'd to Allah forth a pray'r —
Or seem'd to pray – for Russian ear
Even in that pure atmosphere,
The name of Allah 'lone could hear.

The sound, whose purport is to name
God's name – it is an awful sound,
No matter from what lips it came,
Or in what form 'tis found —
Jehovah! Allah! God alike,
Most Christian heart with terror strike.
For ignorant as may be man,
Or with perverted learning stored,
There is, within the soul's wide span,
A deep unutterable word.

A music, and a hymn,
Which any voice of love that breaks
From pious spirit gently wakes,
Like slumb'ring Cherubim.

And "Allah, Allah, Allah!" rose
More thrilling still for Russian foes
By Russian eyes unseen!
Behind a thick wood's screen,
Circassia's dreadful horsemen were
Bowed to the earth, and drinking there
Enthusiasm grand from pray'r,
Ready to spring as soldier fir'd,
When soldier is a Priest inspir'd.
Ay, o'er that host the sacred name
Of Allah rolled, a scorching flame,
That thrilled into the heart's deep core,
And swelled it like a heaving ocean
Visited by Tempest's roar.
Invader! such sublime emotion
Bodes thee no good – so do not mock
The sacred sound which fills each rock.

"Yon Priest must fall, and by his blood
Damp the affrighted army's zeal,
Who dream his body's proof and good
'Gainst flying ball or flashing steel."

A gun was pointed – match applied —
The ball leaped forth; the smoke spread wide.
And cleared away as the echo died,
And "Allah! Allah! Allah!" rose
From lips that never quiver'd:
Nor changed the White Priest's grand repose,
The White Horse never shiver'd.

The cannoneer, now trembling, blushed,
For he rarely missed his aim,
While his commander forward rushed,
With words of bitter blame.

"There is no mark to guide the eye,"
Faltered the chidden man;
"Yon thing of white is as the sky —
No difference can I scan!"
"Let charge the gun with mitraille show'r,
And Allah will be heard no more."

And the gun was charged, and fixed, and fired;
Full fifty bullets flew.
The smoke hung long, the men admired
How the cannon burst not through.
And the startled echoes thundered,
And more again all wondered —
As died away the echoes' roar —
The name of Allah rose once more.

And "Allah! Allah! Allah!" rose,
While horse and rider look'd repose,