THEY come from the mountains, in thousands they come—
There breatheth no trumpet, there beateth no drum:
They march in such silence as suiteth the dead,
Their herald the thunder that echoes their tread.
The sun is midway in his morning advance,
His beams kindle musket, and sabre, and lance;
While beneath each white turban flows down the long hair;
For the locks of the Druse are, like northern locks, fair.
They sweep like a torrent the far mountain-side,
Wild and steep is the path which these warriors ride;
But the foot in the stirrup, the hand on the rein,
To them the hill-side is the same as the plain.
Frail and faint is the Emir who leadeth them on,
His heart has not failed, but his prowess is gone;
Yet he comes in a litter,* due homage to yield
To the Pasha, who gathers his force for the field.
In Ibrahim’s cause no man may be slack,
Wo, wo tho the coward who turneth him back;
His head to the vulture, his roof to the flame,
Were the doom that would wait on himself and his name.
How gallant they look in their gathered array!
While turban and housing reflect the noon-ray.
Afar are the foes, and the field is before—
It will know them as victors, or know them no more!
*“The palace of the Emir Beshir, the sovereign of Lebanon, is a costly edifice, commanding a prospect of the valley and town of Deir-el-Kamar, with a distant view of the sea. When Ibrahim Pasha was about to march into Syria, his ally, the Emir, sent his summons throughout the whole range of Lebanon, and the mountaineers immediately obeyed his call. On former occasions, the Sheikh Beshir, or Druse chief, was general of the army, but the Emir, in this instance, exhibited his zeal in the cause of Ibrahim, by accompanying his troops, on their march, to Damascus, borne in a litter. The subjects of the Emir are Druses and Christians, both warlike, both attached to their prince, who is a Christian. They are perhaps the only people who do not love music: they possess no musical instruments, and march to battle without trumpet, pipe, or song.”
Discuss this Letitia Elizabeth Landon poem with the community:
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Gaeilge (Irish)
- Українська (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"The Gathering of the Chieftains at Beteddein - The Palace of the Prince of the Druses" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 28 Oct. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/44746/the-gathering-of-the-chieftains-at-beteddein---the-palace-of-the-prince-of-the-druses>.