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[Of Hyacinth, his outrageous address;]

Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth,
When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc!
Now, thought he, my trial beginneth;
Saints, O give me courage and pluck!
“Courage, boys, ’tis useless to funk!”
Thus unto the friars he began:
“Never let it be said that a monk
Is not likewise a gentleman.
Though the patron saint of the church,
Spite of all that we’ve done and we’ve pray’d,
Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch,
Hang it, gentlemen, who’s afraid!”

[And preparation for dying.]

As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke,
He, with an air as easy and as free as
If the quick-coming murder were a joke,
Folded his robes around his sides, and took
Place under sainted Sophy’s legs of oak,
Like Caesar at the statue of Pompeius.
The monks no leisure had about to look
(Each being absorbed in his particular case),
Else had they seen with what celestial race
A wooden smile stole o’er the saint’s mahogany face.

[Saint Sophia, her speech.]

“Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son!”
Thus spoke the sainted statue.
“Though you doubted me in the hour of need,
And spoke of me very rude indeed,
You deserve good luck for showing such pluck,
And I won’t be angry at you.”

[She gets on the prior’s shoulder straddle-back,]

The monks by-standing, one and all,
Of this wondrous scene beholders,
To this kind promise listened content,
And couldn’t contain their astonishment,
When Saint Sophia moved and went
Down from her wooden pedestal,
And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs,
Round Hyacinthus’s shoulders!

[And bids him run.]

“Ho! forwards,” cried Sophy, “there’s no time for waiting,
The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in:
See the glare of their torches shines red through the grating;
We’ve still the back door, and two minutes or more.
Now boys, now or never, we must make for the river,
For we only are safe on the opposite shore.
Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,–
Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man;
And I’ll lay five to two that you carry us through,
Only scamper as fast as you can.”

XVIII.

[He runneth,]

Away went the priest through the little back door,
And light on his shoulders the image he bore:
The honest old priest was not punished the least,
Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four.
Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail
Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail;
And just as the last at the back door had passed,
In furious hunt behold at the front
The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers;
With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and spears,
With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in.
They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the psalter,
They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar;
The vestments they burned with their blasphemous fires,
And many cried, “Curse on them! where are the friars?”
When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more,
One chanced to fling open the little back door,
Spied out the friars’ white robes and long shadows
In the moon, scampering over the meadows,
And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their arsons,
By crying out lustily, “THERE GO THE PARSONS!”

[And the Tartars after him.]

With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout,
At once the whole murderous body turned out;
And swift as the hawk pounces down on the pigeon,
Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion.

[How the friars sweated.]

When the sound of that cheering came to the monks’ hearing,
O heaven! how the poor fellows panted and blew!
At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running,
When the Tartars came up, what the deuce should they do?
“They’ll make us all martyrs, those bloodthirsty Tartars!”
Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh.
The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew nearer;
Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights shone!
“I cannot get further, this running is murther;
Come carry me, some one!” cried big Father John.
And even the statue grew frightened, “Od rat you!”
It cried, “Mr. Prior, I wish you’d get on!”
On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher
Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with fire.
On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy’s desire,–
A scramble through bramble, through mud, and through mire,
The swift arrows’ whizziness causing a dizziness,
Nigh done his business, fit to expire.