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

As statues on the mountain raised,
Round whom the mitraille idly blazed,
And rent and tore the earth around;
But nothing shook except the ground,
Still the untroubled lip ne'er quivered,
Still that white altar-horse ne'er shivered.

"Wait his return," the captain cried;
"The mountain's side a mark supplies,
And range in line some twenty guns:
Fire one by one, as back he runs;
With mitraille loaded be each gun —
For him who kills a grade is won!"

But back the White Horse ran not – no!
His pace was gentle, grand, and slow;
His rider on the holy skies,
In meditation fix'd his eyes.
The enemy, with murderous plan,
Knew not which to most admire,
The grand White Steed, the grander man,
When, lo! the signal – "Fire!"

"Unscath'd! unscath'd! now mark the race!"
The laughing soldiers cried:
The White Horse quickens not his pace,
The Priest spurs not his side.

"Ha! mark his figure on the rock!"
A second gun is ringing,
The rock itself is springing,
As from a mine's low shock,
Its splinters flying in the air,
And round the Priest and steed is there
Of balls and stones an atmosphere.

What not one stain upon his side!
The whited robe remains undyed —
No bloody rain upon the path —
Surprise subdues the soldier's wrath.
"Give him a chance for life, one chance;
(Now, hear the chance the captain gave)
Let every gun be fired at once —
At random, too – and he, the brave,
If he escape, will have to tell
A prodigy – a miracle —
Or meet the bloodiest grave
That ever closed o'er human corse,
O'er rider brave, or gallant horse."

And away, and away, like thunder weather,
Full twenty cannon blaze together;
Forth the volcano vomits wide.
The men who fired them spring aside,
As back the cannons wheeled.
Then came a solemn pause;
One would have thought the mountain reeled,
As a crater opes its jaws.

But the smoke and sulphur clearing,
Down the mountain's side, unfearing,
Phantom-like glided horse and man,
As though they had no danger ran.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" the soldiers cheer,
And clap their hands in wild delight.
Circassia's Priest, who scorn'd to fear,
Bears the applause of Muscovite.
But, soldiers, load your guns once more;
Load them if ye have time,
For ears did hear your cannons roar,
To whom it is as sweet bells chime,
Inviting to a battle feast.

Dark eyes did see the mitraille driven,
With murderous intent,
'Gainst the High Priest, to whom was given
Protection by offended Heaven,
From you on murder bent,
Haste, sacrilegious Russian, haste,
For behold, their forest-screen they form,
With the ominous sounds of a gathering storm.

Promptly – swiftly – fatally burst,
That storm by Patriot-piety nursed;
Down it swept the mountain's side;
Fast o'er the plain it pour'd,
An avalanche – a deluge wide,
O'er the invader roared.
A White Horse, like a foaming wave,
Dashed forward 'mong the foremost brave,
And swift as is the silver light,
He arrowy clear'd his way,
And cut the mass as clouds a ray.
Or meteor piercing night.
Aimed at him now was many a lance,
No spear could stop his fiery prance,
Oft would he seize it with his mouth,
With snort and fierce tempestuous froth,
While swift the rider would cut down