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THE    GIAOUR. 


• 


THE    GIAOUR, 


A    FRAGMENT  OF 


A    TURKISH    TALE. 


BY  LORD  BYRON. 


"  One  fatal  remembrance— one  sorrow  that  throws 
"  It's  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes — 
"  To  which  Life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 
"  For  which  joy  hath  no  balm — and  affliction  no  sting." 


Muonr. 


THE    ELEVENTH   EDITION. 


LONDON: 

l*rintcd  by  Thomas  Daviaon,  Whitefriars> 
FOR    JOHN    MURRAY,    A  LB  EM  A  RLE-STREET, 

1814. 


FHB  1 
, 

VSITY  0; 


PR 

MSfet. 
Al 


TO 


I 


SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 

AS  A  SLIGHT  BUT  MOST  SINCERE  TOKEN 

OF  ADMIRATION  OF  HIS  GENIUS; 

RESPECT  FOR  HIS  CHARACTER, 

AND  GRATITUDE  FOR  HIS  FRIENDSHIP; 

THIS  PRODUCTION  IS  INSCRIBED  BY 
HIS   OBLIGED   AND   AFFECTIONATE   SERVANT, 


BYRON 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present,  is 
founded  upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in  the 
East  than  formerly;  either  because  the  ladies  are  more 
circumspect  than  in  the  "  olden  time;"  or  because  the 
Christians  have  better  fortune,  or  less  enterprize.  The 
story,  when  entire,  contained  the  adventures  of  a  female 
slave,  who  was  thrown,  in  the  Mussulman  manner,  into 
the  sea  for  infidelity,  and  avenged  by  a  young  Venetian, 
her  lover,  at  the  time  the  Seven  Islands  were  possessed 
by  the  Republic  of  Venice,  and  soon  after  the  Arnauts 
were  beaten  back  from  the  Morea,  which  they  had  ra- 
vaged for  some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion. 
The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  refused  the 
plunder  of  Misitra,  led  to  the  abandonment  of  that  en- 
terprize, and  to  the  desolation  of  the  Morea,  during 
which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was  unparalleled 
even  in  the  annals  of  the  faithful. 


THE  GIAOUR, 

A   FRAGMENT  OF  A  TURKISH  TALE, 


N  o  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb  l  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff, 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff, 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain — 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 


Fair  clime !  where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight,  10 

And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 
There  mildly  dimpling — Ocean's  cheek 
Reflects  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 
Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave ;  1 5 


THE  GIAOUR. 

And  if  at  times  a  transient  breeze 

Break  the  blue  chrystal  of  the  seas, 

Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 

How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air, 

That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odours  there !  20 

For  there — the  Rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 

Sultana  of  the  Nightingale,2 

The  maid  for  whom  his  melody — 

His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale ;  25 

His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 
Unbent  by  winds,  unchill'd  by  snows, 
Far  from  the  winters  of  the  west 
By  every  breeze  and  season  blest, 

Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given  30 

In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven ; 
And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh . 
And  many  a  summer  flower  is  there, 
And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  share,,  35 

And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest, 
That  holds  the  pirate  for  a  guest ; 


THE  GIAOUR.  ^ 

Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 

Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 

Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar3  40 

Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star  ; 

Then  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar, 

Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 

Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey, 

And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay.  45 

Strange — that  where  Nature  lov'd  to  trace, 

As  if  for  Gods,  a  dwelling-place, 

And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mixed 

Within  the  paradise  she  fixed — 

There  man,  enamour'd  of  distress,  50 

Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 

And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 

That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour ; 

Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 

To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land,  55 

But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care, 

And  sweetly  woos  him — but  to  spare ! 

Strange — that  where  all  is  peace  beside 

There  passion  riots  in  her  pride, 


THE  GIAOUR. 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign,  60 

To  darken  o'er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevail'd 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assail'd, 

And  fixed,  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of  hell—  65 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy ! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 

Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled ; 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness,  70 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress ; 

(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 

And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air — 

The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there —  75 

The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 

The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 

And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not — wins  not — weeps  not — now — 
And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow,  80 

Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy4 


THE  GIAOUR. 

Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon — 

Yes — but  for  these  and  these  alone,  85 

Some  moments — aye — one  treacherous  hour, 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power, 

So  fair — so  calm — so  softly  seal'd 

The  first — last  look — by  death  reveal'd!5 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore —  '      9O 

Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start — for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ;  9-5 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb — 

Expression's  last  receding  ray, 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 

The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away!  100 

Spark  of  that  flame — perchance  of  heavenly  birth — 
Which  gleams — but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth ! 


THE  GIAOUR. 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave ! — 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave —  10.5 

Shrine  of  the  mighty !  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach  thou  craven  crouching  slave- 
Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? 

These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave  110 

Oh  servile  offspring  of  the  free — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis  ! 
These  scenes — their  story  not  unknown — 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own  ;  115 

Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires, 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear, 

That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear,  120 

And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame ; 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 
Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won.  12,5 


'HIE  C1IAOI  7 

Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 

Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age! 

While  kingg  in  dusty  darkness  hid; 

Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 

Thy  heroes — though  the  general  doom  1 30 

Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 

A  mightier  monument  command, 

The  mountains  of  their  native  land ! 

There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye, 

The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die !  1 35 

'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 

Each  step  from  splendour  to  disgrace, 

Enough — no  foreign  foe  could  quell 

Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell, 

Yes!  Self-abasement  pav'd  the  way  140 

To  vilain-bonds  and  despot-sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar, 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore,  14,> 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 


THE  GIAOUR. 

The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime ; 

Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave,  150 

Slaves — nay  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave,6 

And  callous,  save  to  crime ; 
Stain'd  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes ; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest,  155 

Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast. 
Still  to  the  neighbouring  ports  they  waft 
Proverbial  wiles,  and  ancient  craft, 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found, 

For  this,  and  this  alone,  renown'd.  1 60 

In  vain  might  Liberty  invoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke, 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  yoke : 
No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail, 

Yet  this  will  be  a  mournful  tale,  JCJ5 

And  they  who  listen  may  believe, 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve. 


THE  GIAOUR.  9 

Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing, 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing, 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat  1 70 

Of  island-pirate  or  Mainote  ; 
And  fearful  for  his  light  caique 
He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek, 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil, 
And  cumber'd  with  his  scaly  spoil,  175 

Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar, 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night. 


Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed  ?  180 

With  slackened  bit  and  hoof  of  speed, 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound 
The  cavern'd  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound ; 
The  foam  that  streaks  the  courser's  side,  185 

Seems  gather'd  from  the  ocean-tide: 
Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest, 
There's  none  within  his  rider's  breast, 


10  THE  GIAOUR. 

And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lower, 

Tis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour! 7  190 

I  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 

But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 

What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface ; 

Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 

Is  scath'd  by  fiery  passion's  brunt,  19.5 

Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye 

As  meteor  like  thou  glidest  by, 

Right  well  I  view,  and  deem  thee  one 

Whom  Othman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On — on  he  hastened — and  he  drew  200 

My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  passed  and  vanished  from  my  sight ; 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impressed 

A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast ;  205 

And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed — he  nears  the  steep, 
That  jutting  shadows  o'er  the  deep — 


THE  CJI  \OITR.  1  I 

He  winds  around — he  hurries  by —  2 1 0 

The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eye — 

For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 

Whose  glance  is  fixed  on  those  that  flee ; 

And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 

On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight.  '1 1 5 

He  wound  along — but  ere  he  passed 

One  glance  he  snatched — as  if  his  last — 

A  moment  checked  his  wheeling  steed — 

A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed — 

A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood —  220 

Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive  wood  ? — 

The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill, 

The  Mosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering 

Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 

In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike, 8  225 

The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 

Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal. 

To-night — set  Rhamazani's  sun — 

To-night — the  Bairam  feast's  begun — 

To-night — but  who  and  what  art  thou  230 

Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  ? 


•„ 

ing  still ; 

O 


THE  GIAOUR. 

And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 
That  thou  should'st  either  pause  or  flee  ? 
He  stood — some  dread  was  on  his  face — 
Soon  Hatred  settled  in  its  place —  235 

It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 
Of  transient  Angers  darkening  blush, 
But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb, 
Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 
His  brow  was  bent — his  eye  was  glazed —  240 

He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised ; 
And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 
As  doubting  to  return  or  fly ; — 
Impatient  of  his  flight  delayed 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neighed —  245 

Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasped  his  blade—- 
That sound  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 
As  Slumber  starts  at  owlet's  scream. — 
The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser's  sides — 
Away-r-away — for  life  he  rides —  250 

Swift  as  the  hurled  on  high  jerreed, 9 
Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed, 


THE  (ilAOUH. 


13 


The  rock  is  doubled — and  the  shore 

Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more — 

The  crag  is  won — no  more  is  seen  -  •"».'• 

His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien. — 

'Twas  but  an  instant* — he,  restrained 

That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  reined — 

'Twas  but  a  moment  that  he  stood, 

Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued ;  260 

But  in  that  instant,  o'er  his  soul 

Winters  of  Memory  seemed  to  roll ; 

And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 

A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 

O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fears,  26$ 

Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years—- 
What felt  he  then — at  once  opprest 

By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast  ? 

That  pause — which  pondered  o'er  his  fate, 

Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date !  270 

Though  in  Time's  record  nearly  nought, 

It  was  Eternity  to  Thought ! 
\  For  infinite  as  boundless  space 
j  The  thought  that  Conscience  must  embrace, 


[4  THE  GIAOUR. 

Which  in  itself  can  comprehend  275 

Woe  without  name — or  hope — or  end.— 

The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone, 
And  did  he  fly  or  fall,  alone  ? 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went, 
The  curse  for  Hassan's  sin  was  sent  28() 

To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb ; 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom,10 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom, 
Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 
The  very  cypress  droops  to  death —  285 

Dark  tree — still  sad,  when  others'  grief  is  fled, 
The  only  constant  mourner  o'er  the  dead ! 

The  steed  is  vanished  from  the  stall, 
No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall 

The  lonely  Spider's  thin  grey  pall  29{> 

Waves  slowly  widening  o'er  the  wall ; 
The  Bat  builds  in  his  Haram  bower; 
And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 
The  Owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower ; 


THE  GIAOUR.  15 

The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim,  295 

With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine,  grim, 

For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble  bed, 

\\  IK  re  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread. 

'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 

And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day —  300 

As  springing  high  the  silver  dew 

In  whirls  fantastically  flew, 

And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 

The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. — 

'Twas  sweet,  when  cloudless  stars  were  bright,        30a 

To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light, 

And  hear  its  melody  by  night. — 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  Childhood  played 

Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade ; 

And  oft  upon  his  mother's  breast  3 1 0 

That  sound  had  harmonized  his  rest ; 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  Youth  along 

Its  bank  been  sooth'd  by  Beauty's  song ; 

And  softer  seemed  each  melting  tone 

Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. —  315 

But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  Age  repose 

Along  the  brink  at  Twilight's  close*— 


16  THE  GIAOUli. 

The  stream  that  filled  that  font  is  fled — 

The  blood  that  warmed  his  heart  is  shed  ! — 

And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice  320 

Be  heard  to  rage — regret— rejoice — 

The  last  sad  note  that  swelled  the  gale 

Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail — 

That  quenched  in  silence — all  is  still, 

But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill —  325 

Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain, 

No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 

On  desart  sands  'twere  joy  to  scan 

The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man, 

So  here  the  very  voice  of  Grief  330 

Might  wake  an  Echo  like  relief — 

At  least  'twould  say,  "  all  are  not  gone ; 

"  There  lingers  Life,  though  but  in  one — 

For  many  a  gijded  chamber's  there, 

Which  Solitude  might  well  forbear ; 

Within  that  dome  as  yet  Decay 

Hath  slowly  worked  her  cankering  way — 

But  Gloom  is  gathered  o'er  the  gate, 

Nor  there  the  Fakir's  self  will  wait; 


THE  GIAOUR.  17 

Nor  there  will  wandering  Dervise  stay,  3  10 

For  Bounty  cheers  not  his  delay  ; 

Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 

To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt."11 

Alike  must  Wealth  and  Poverty 

Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by,  345 

For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 

With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side.— 

His  roof  —  that  refuge  unto  men  — 

Is  Desolation's  hungry  den.  —  .j^jt  c 

fJAigljLA.      tJU 

The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labour,     3  SO  '^jj^+j^ 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre  !  " 

~ 


I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet— 
More  near  —  each  turban  I  can  scan, 
And  silver-sheathed  ataghan  ;  *»    dloflf^  3;55 

The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen 
An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green  :  u 
"  Ho  !  who  art  thou?  —  this  low  salam  Is 
"  Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am. 


THE  GIAOUR. 

"  The  burthen  ye  so  gently  bear,  360 

"  Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care, 
"  And,  doubtless,  holds  some  precious  freight, 
"  My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait." 

"  Thou  speakest  sooth,  thy  skiff  unmoor, 
"  And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore  ;  36.5 

"  Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  fuii'd,  and  ply 
"  The  nearest  oar  that's  scattered  by, 
"  And  midway  to  those  rocks*where  sleep 
"  The  channel'd  waters  dark  and  deep.  — 
"  Rest  from  your  task  —  so  —  bravely  done,  370 

"  Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run, 
"  Yet  'tis  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow, 
"That  one  of—  *         *         *         * 


Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank, 
The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank  ;  375 

I  watch'd  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 


THE  GIVOUR.  19 

Bestirr'd  it  more, — 'twas  but  the  beam 

That  chequer'd  o'er  the  living  stream — 

I  gaz'd,  till  vanishing  from  view,  380 

Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew ; 

Still  less  and  less,  a  speck  of  white 

That  gemm'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sight ; 

And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep. 

A  J 

Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep,  385 

Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves, 
They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 

******** 

As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen l6  of  eastern  sprbig, 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer  390 

Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
And  leads  him  on  fr,om  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour, 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye  :  395 

So  Beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild; 

c  2 


20  THE  GIAOUR. 


A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 

Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 

If  won,  to  equal  ills  betrayed,  400 

Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid, 

A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 

From  infant's  play,  or  man's  caprice : 

The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 

Has  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught,  405 

For  every  touch  that  wooed  it's  stay 

Has  brush'd  the  brightest  hues  away 

Till  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 

Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 

With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast,  4  10 

Ah !  where  shall  either  victim  rest  ? 

Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 

From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  ? 

Or  Beauty,  blighted  in  an  hour, 

Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower  ?  415 

No :  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 

Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  die, 

And  lovelier  things  liave  mercy  shewn 

To  every  failing  but  their  own, 


THE  GIAOUR.  21 

And  every  woe  a  tear  can  claim  420 

Except  an  erring  sister's  shame.      K 
»*****»# 

The  Mind,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes, 

Is  like  the  Scorpion  girt  by  fire, 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows 

The  flames  around  their  captive  close,  425 

Till  inly  searched  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire, 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  she  nourished  for  her  foes, 
Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain,  430 

Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain, 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain. — 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire, 
Or  live  like  Scorpion  girt  by  fire  ;17 
So  writhes  the  mind  Remorse  hath  riven,  435 

Unfit  for  earth,  undoom'd  for  heaven, 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 

Around  it  flame,  within  it  death ! — 

******** 


22  THE  GIAOUR. 

Black  Hassan  from  the  Haram  flies, 
Nor  bends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes,  440 

The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 

Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell  ?  445 

That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell : 
Strange  rumours  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away ; 
When  Rhamazan's l8  last  sun  was  set, 
And  flashing  from  each  minaret  450 

Millions  of  lamps  proclaim'd  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  East. 
Twas  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Which  Hassan  vainly  searched  in  wrath, 
But  she  was  flown  Her.  master's  rage  455 

In  likeness  of  a  Georgian  page ; 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Had  wrong'd  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour. 
Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deem'd, 
But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seem'd,  460 


THE  GIAOUR. 

Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 

\Yhose  treachery  deserv'd  a  grave: 

And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque, 

And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 

Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell,  4-65 

Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 

But  others  say,  that  on  that  night, 

By  pale  Phingari's  I9  trembling  light, 

The  Giaour  upon  his  jet  black  steed 

Was  seen — but  seen  alone  to  speed  470 

With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore, 

Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 


Her  eye's  dark  charm  'twere  vain  to  tell, 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  Gazelle, 

It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well>   "  47.5 

As  large,  as  languishingly  dark, 
But  Soul  beam'd  forth  in  every  spark 
That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid, 
Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid2*. 


24  THE  GIAOUR. 

Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say  480 

That  form  was  nought  but  breathing  clay, 
By  Alia !  I  would  answer  nay ; 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's 2I  arch  I  stood, 
Which  totters  o'er  the  fiery  flood, 

With  Paradise  within  my  view,  485 

And  all  his  Houris  beckoning  through. 
Oh !  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  read 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed 2Z 
Which  saith,  that  woman  is  but  dust, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust  ?  490 

On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 
I  That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone — 
On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue, 
The  young  pomegranate's23  blossoms  strew 
Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new —  49.5 

Her  hair  in  hyacinthine  a4  flow 
When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below ; 
As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 

Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet  500 

Gleamed  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet 


THE  GIAOLlt.  25 

Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth, 

It  tell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 

The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  \vater  — 

So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter  —  505 

The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan  !  1S 

As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  Swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 

Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide;  510 

Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck  :  — 
Thus  armed  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  Folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise. 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait  ;  515 

Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate  — 
Her  mate  —  stern  Hassan,  who  was  he  ? 
Alas  !  that  name  was  not  for  thee  ! 
******** 


Stern  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train,  .520 

Each  armM  as  best  becomes  a  man 
With  arquebuss  and  ataghan  ; 


;  THE  GIAOUR. 

The  chief  before,  as  deck'd  for  war 

Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 

Stain'd  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood,  52.5 

When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 

And  few  returned  to  tell  the  tale 

Of  what  befell  in  Fame's  vale. 

The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 

Were  those  that  once  a  pasha  wore,  530 

Which  still,  though  gemm'd  and  boss'd  with  gold, 

Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. — 

'Tis  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 

More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side ; 

The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower,  53,5 

And,  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour  I—- 


The sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill, 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill, 
Whose  welcome  waters  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer ;  540 

Here  may  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  'twere  vain-  to  seek 


THE  GIAOUR.  27 

In  cities  lodg'd  too  near  his  lord, 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard- 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see,  54.5 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free ; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. — 
******** 

The  foremost  Tartar's  in  the  gap, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap,  550 

The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile ; 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak, 
Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak, 
And  their's  may  be  a  feast  to-night,  555 

Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light. 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare, 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there.  560 

Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray, 


THE  GIAOUR. 

By  time  or  mountain  lightning  riven, 

From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven ; 

For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld  56.5 

The  peak  of  Liakura  unveil'd  ? 


They  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last, 
*  Bismillah  !16  now  the  peril's  past ; 
a  For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
"  And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain :"  570 

The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head ; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground ! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound,  575 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again, 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsheath'd,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  courser's  harness  leant,  580 

Half  shelter'd  by  the  steed, 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock, 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 


THE  GIAOl  It.  '& 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen,  585 

Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course, 
Till  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 

Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan  590 

Have  well  secur'd  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promis'd  prey ; 
Then  ctirl'd  his  very  beard  87  with  ire, 
And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire. 
"  Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss,  595 

"  Fve  scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this." 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit, 
And  call  his  vassals  to  submit ; 
Rut  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword,  GOO 

Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Resigned  carbine  or  ataghan — 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun ! 1§ 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 
The  lately  ambush'd  foes  appear,  f,05 


30  THE  GIAOUR. 

And  issuing  from  the  grove  advance, 

Some  who  on  battle  charger  prance. — 

Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand, 

Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand  ? 

"  Tis  he— 'tis  he— I  know  him  now,  6 1 0 

"  I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow ; 

"  I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye 29 

"  That  aids  his  envious  treachery; 

"I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb, 

"  Though  now  array 'd  in  Arnaut  garb,  615 

"  Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 

"  It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death ; 

"  'Tis  he,  well  met  in  any  hour, 

"  Lost  Leila's  love — accursed  Giaour!" 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean,  620 

lu  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming ; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion 
In  afcure  column  proudly  gleaming, 
Beats  back  the  current  many  a  rood, 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood;  62$ 


THE  G1AOUK.  31 

\Vhi!e  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave, 

Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter  rave ; 

Through  sparkling  spray  in  thundering  clash, 

The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 

In  ftwefu)  whiteness  o'er  the  shore,  630 

That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar ; 

Tims — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet, 

With  waves  that  madden  as  they  meet — 

Thus  join  the  bands  whom  mutual  wrong, 

And  fate  and  fury  drive  along.  635 

The  bickering  sabres'  shivering  jar 

And  pealing  wide — or  ringing  near 

It's  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear 
The  deathshot  hissing  from  afar — 
The  shock — the  shout — the  groan  of  war —  O'lO 

Reverberate  along  that  vale, 

More  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale : 
Though  few  the  numbers — their's  the  strife, 
That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life ! 
Ah!  fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press-,  645 

To  seire  and  share  the  dear  caress  j 


32  THE  GIAOUR. 

But  Love  itself  could  never  pant 

For  all  that  Beauty  sighs  to  grant, 

With  half  the  fervour  Hate  bestows 

Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes,  650 

When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fold 

Those  arms  that  ne'er  shall  lose  their  hold; 

Friends  meet  to  part — Love  laughs  at  faith ;— - 

True  foes,  once  met,  are  joined  till  death ! 


With  sabre  shiver'd  to  the  hilt,  655 

Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt ; 

Yet  strain'd  within  the  severed  hand 

Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand ; 

His  turban  far  behind  him  roli'd, 

And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold ;  660 

His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 

And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  mom 

That  streak'd  with  dusky  red,  portend 

The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end; 

A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bore  €65 

A  fragment  of  his  palampore, 3* 


THE  GIAOUR.  33 

His  breast  with  wounds  unnumber'd  riven, 

His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 

Fall'ii  Hassan  lies — his  unclos'd  eve 

Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy,  670 

As  if  the  hour  that  seal'd  his  fate, 

Surviving  left  his  quenchless  hate ; 

And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe  with 

As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below, 

******* 


vith  brow 

>v. — 


"  Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave,  675 

"  But  his  shall  be  a  redder  grave ; 
"  Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
"  Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feel.  $^ 

"  He  call'd  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
"  Was  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour :  680 

"  He  called  on  Alia — but  the  word 
"  Arose  unheeded  or  unheard. 
"  Thou  Paynim  fool ! — could  Leila's  prayer 
"  Be  pass'd,  and  thine  accorded  there  ? 
"  I  watch'd  iny  time,  I  leagued  with  these,  685 

"  The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize ; 

D 


34  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  My  wrath  is  wreak'd,  the  deed  is  done, " 

"  And  now  I  go — but  go  alone." 

*         *         *         *         *         *         * 

******* 

The  browzing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling — 
His  Mother  looked  from  her  lattice  high,  690 

She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling, 
"  'Tis  twilight — sure  his  train  is  nigh." — 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower,  695 

But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower— 
"  Why  comes  he  not  ?  his  steeds  are  fleet, 
"  Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat ; 
"  Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  promised  gift, 
"  Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ?       700 
"  Oh,  false  reproach !  yon  Tartar  now 
"  Has  gained  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
"  And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
"  And  now  within  the  valley  bends ; 


THE  GIAOUR.  35 

"  And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow —  705 

"  How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow  ? 

"  Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 

"  His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." — 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate, 

But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight;  710 

His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress, 

But  this  might  be  from  weariness ; 

His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 

But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side ; — 

He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest —  715 

Angel  of  Death  !  'tis  Hassan's  cloven  crest ! 

His  calpac31  rent— his  caftan  red—         p«**  * 

"  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed — 

"  Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 

"  But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bear.  720 

"  Peace  to  the  brave !  whose  blood  is  spilt — 

"  Woe  to  the  Giaour !  for  his  the  guilt." 

******         * 

D2 


36 


THE  GIAOUR. 


A  turban  32  carv'd  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, 
Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  dead ; 
Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A  victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 
There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e'er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee ; 
As  ever  scorn'd  forbidden  wine, 
Or  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of"  Alia  Hu!"" 
Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand, 
And  stranger  in  his  native  land — 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 
And  unaveng'd,  at  least  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite, 
And  the  dark  Heaven  of  Houri's  eyes 

On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  bright ; 
They  come — their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave,34 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave ! 


725 


730 


735 


740 


THE  GIAOUR. 

Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour, 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 

**-***** 


37 
745 


But  thou,  false  Infidel !  shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's 3S  scythe ; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis' 36  throne  ; 
And  fire  unquench'd,  unquenchable — 
Around — within — thy  heart  shall  dwell, 
Nor  ear  can  hear,  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell ! — 
But  first,  on  earth  as  Vampire 37  sent, 
Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent ; 
Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place, 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race, 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life ; 
Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse ; 
Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  daemon  for  their  sire, 


750 


755 


760 


38  THE  GIAOUK. 

As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them,  765 

Thy  flowers  are  wither'd  on  the  stem. 

But  one  that  for  thy  crime  must  fall — 

The  youngest — most  belov'd  of  all, 

Shall  bless  thee  with  a. father's  name — 

That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame!  770 

Yet  must  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 

Her  cheek's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  spark, 

And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 

Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue  ; 

Then  with  unhallowed  hand  shalt  tear  77-5 

The  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair, 

Of  which  in  life  a  lock  when  shorn, 

Affection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn  ; 

But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee, 

Memorial  of  thine  agony!  780 

Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip, 38 

Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip  ; 

Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave — 

Go — and  with  Gouls  and  Afrits  rave; 


TIIE  GIAOUlt  39 

Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away  785 

From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they! 


"  How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer  ?  ^<V^ 

"  His  features  I  have  scann'd  before 
"  In  mine  own  land  —  'tis  many  a  year, 

"  Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore,  790 

€t  I  saw  him  urge  as  fleet  a  steed 
"  As  ever  serv'd  a  horseman's  need. 
"  But  once  I  saw  that  face  —  yet  then 
"  It  was  so  mark'd  with  inward  pain 

"  I  could  not  pass  it  by  again  ;  79.5 

—  \ 
11  It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now, 

"  As  death  were  stamped  upon  his  brow.  J 


4 


"  'Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer  tide 
"  Since  first  among  our  freres  he  came ; 

"  And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide  800 

"  For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name. 

"  But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 

"  Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 


40  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  Kneels  he,  nor  recks  lie  when  arise 
"  Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies,  805 

"  But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 
i "  His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 
"  The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost, 
"  And  here  ascended  from  the  coast, 
"  Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race,  810 

"  But  only  Christian  in  his  face  : 
"  I'd  judge  him  some  stray  renegade, 
"  Repentant  of  the  change  he  made, 
"  Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
te  Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine.  815 

"  Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
|"  And  thus  our  abbot's  favour  bought  } 
"  But  were  I  Prior,  not  a  day 
'"  Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay, 
"  Or  pent  within  our  penance  cell  820 

"  Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell. 
"  Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
"  Of  maiden  ?  whelmed  beneath  the  sea; 
"  Of  sabres  clashing — foemen  flying, 
"  Wrongs  aveng'd — and  Moslem  dying.  825 


THE  GIAOUR.  41 

u  On  cliff  he  hath  been  known  to  stand, 

"  And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 

"  Fresh  sever'd  from  its  parent  limb, 

"  Invisible  to  all  but  him, 

"  Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave,  S30 

"  And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl 

That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl  — 

The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 

Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by  —  835 

Though  varying  —  indistinct  its  hue, 

Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue  — 

For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell 

Which  speaks  —  itself  unspeakable  —  J 

A  spirit  yet  unquelled  and  high  840 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendancy, 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake  — 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake  — 

Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look, 

Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook.  845 


42  THE  GIAOUR. 

From  him  the  half-affrighted  Friar 
When  met  alone  would  fain  retire — 
As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 
Transferred  to  others  fear  and  guile — 


_  [ot  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he,  850 


N( 

And  when  he  doth  'tis  sad  to  see 
That  he  but  mocks  at  Misery. 
.   How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver ! 
Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever — 
As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain  855 

Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. — 
Well  were  it  so — such  ghastly  mirth 

From  joyaunce  ne'er  deriv'd  its  birth. — 

- 
But  sadder  still  it  were  to  trace 

What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face —  860 

Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fixed, 
But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mixed — 
And  there  are  hues  not  always  faded, 
Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded 
Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  waded —  865 

.  The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 
Of  wayward  deeds — and  fitting  doom — • 


TIII-:  GIAOI  it 


4:5 


The  close  observer  can  espy 

A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high.— 

Alas !  though  both  bestowed  in  vain,  870 

Which  Grief  could  change — and  Guilt  could  stain — 

It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 

To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent, 

And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 

On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. —  $15 

The  roofless  cot  decayed  and  rent, 

Will  scarce  delay  the  passer  by — 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 

Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger's  eye —  330 

Each  ivied  arch — and  pillar  lone, 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone ! 

"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 

"  Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  columned  aisle — 

"  With  dread  beheld — with  gloom  beholding  885 

"  The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 

"  But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 

"  And  kneel  the  monks — his  steps  retire — 


44  THE  GUOUR. 

"  By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 

"  His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch ;  890 

"  There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done — 

""  And  hear  the  prayer — but  utter  none. 

«  See— by  the  half-illumin'd  wall 

"  His  hood  fly  back — his  dark  hair  fall — 

"  That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round,  «S95 

"  As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 

"  The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 

"  That  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  strayed. 

"  For  he  declines  the  convent  oath, 

"  And  leaves  those  locks  unhallowed  growth —         900 

"  But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside ; 

"  And — not  from  piety  but  pride 

t(  Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard 

"  Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word.— 

"  Lo !  — mark  ye — as  the  harmony  905 

€t  Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky — 

"  That  livid  cheek — that  stoney  air 

"  Of  mixed  defiance  and  despair ! 

"  Saint  Francis !  keep  him  from  the  shrine ! 

"  Else  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine  910 


THE  GIAOUR.  45 

u  Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. — 

"  If  ever  evil  angel  bore 

"  The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore — 

"  By  all  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven 

"  Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven !"  9 1  /> 

To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 

But  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  own ; 

Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 

Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair ; 

And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel  1)20 

The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal. 

The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 

Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine, 

But  plung'd  within  the  furnace-flame, 

It  bends  and  melts — though  still  the  same  ;  925 

Then  tempered  to  thy  want,  or  will, 

'Twill  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill ; 

A  breast-plate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 

Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed  ; 

But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear,  930 

Let  those  who  shape  it's  edge,  beware  ! 


46  THE  GIAOUR. 

Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art, 
<  Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart ; 
From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en, 
And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain,  935 

But  break — before  it  bend  again. 


- 


*             # 

* 

* 

*          * 

*          * 

If  solitude  succeed  to  grief, 
Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 

Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less.  940 

We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share—- 
Even bliss — 'twere  woe  alone  to  bear ; 
The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate, 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease — to  hate. 

It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel  94,5 

The  icy  worm  around  them  steal, 
And  shudder,  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay !  950 


THE  GIAOUR.  4? 

It  is  as  if  the  desart-bird,3' 

Whose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream  ; 

To  still  her  famish'd  nestlings'  scream, 
Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferr'd ; 
Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast,  955 

And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest. 
The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 

Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void — 
The  leafless  desart  of  the  mind — 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd —  960 

Who  would  be  doom'd  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun  ? 
Less  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar,     J 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billows  more-^ 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er,  965 

A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay, 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay ; — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock !  970 


48  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  Father !  thy  days  have  pass'd  in  peace, 

"  Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer; 

"  To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease, 
*'  Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care, 

"  Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear,  975 

"  Has  been  thy  lot,  from  youth  to  age, 

"  And  thou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 

"  Of  passions  tierce  and  uncontroufd, 

"  Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 

"  Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest  980 

"  Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 

"  My  days,  though  few,  have  pass'd  below 

"  In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe  ; 

"  Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 

"  I've  scap'd  the  weariness  of  life  ;  985 

"  Now  leagu'd  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 

"  I  loath'd  the  languor  of  repose ; 

"  Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate, 

"  No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate ; 

"  I'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls  990 

"  Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 


THE  GIAOUH.  40 

"  Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 

"  Condemned  to  meditate  and  gaze — 

"  Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  breast 

"  For  rest — but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest —  £'95 

"  Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil ; 

"  And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
"  Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 

"  Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem — 
"  My  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb  1000 

"  Of  joys  long  dead — my  hope — their  doom: — 
"  Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
"  Than  bear  a  life  of  lingering  woes — 
"  My  spirit  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
"  The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pain;  1005 

"  Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
"  Of  ancient  fool,  and  modern  knave : 
"  Yet  death  I  have  not  fear'd  to  meet, 
"  And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet 
"  Had  danger  wooed  me  on  to  move  J010 

"  The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 
"  I've  brav'd  it — not  for  honour's  boast ; 
"  I  smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost.— 


50  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  To  such  let  others  carve  their  way, 

"  For  high  renown,  or  hireling  pay;  1015 

"  But  place  again  before  my  eyes 

"  Aught  that  I  deem  a  worthy  prize ; — 

"  The  maid  I  love — the  man  I  hate — 

"  And  I  will  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 

"  (To  save  or  slay — as  these  require)  1 020 

"  Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire ; 

"  Nor  need'st  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  one 

"  Who  would  but  do — what  he  hath  done. 

"  Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave — 

"  The  weak  must  bear — the  wretch  must  crave —  1025 

"Then  let  Life  go  to  him  who  gave; 

"  I  have  not  quailed  to  danger's  brow — 

"  When  high  and  happy — need  I  now  ? 


"  I  lov'd  her,  friar !  nay,  adored — 

"  But  these  are  words  that  all  can  use —  1030 

"  I  prov'd  it  more  in  deed  than  word — 
tf  There's  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword — 


THE  GIAOUR. 


.51 


"  A  stain  it's  steel  can  never  lose : 
:<  'Twas  shed  for  her,  \vho  died  for  me, 

"  It  warmed  the  heart  of  one  abhorred:  1035 

"  Nay,  start  not — no — nor  bend  thy  knee, 

"  Nor  midst  my  sins  such  act  record, 
"  Thou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed, 
"  For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed ! 
"  The  very  name  of  Nazarene  1040 

"  Was  wormwood  to  his  Paynim  spleen, 
"  Ungrateful  fool!  since  but  for  brands, 
"  Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  hands  ; 
"  And  wounds  by  Galileans  given, 
"  The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heav'n  ;  1045 

"  For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 
"  Impatient  at  the  prophet's  gate. 
"  I  lov'd  her — love  will  find  its  way 
'  Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey, 
"  And  if  it  dares  enough,  'twere  hard  1050 

"  If  passion  met  not  some  reward — 
"  No  matter  how — or  where — or  why, 
"  I  did  not  vainly  seek — nor  sigh  : 

E  2 


52  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  Yet  sometimes  with  remorse  in  vain 
"  I  wish  she  had  not  lovM  again.  1055 

€t  She  died — I  dare  not  tell  thee  how, 
"  But  look — 'tis  written  on  my  brow  ! 
"  There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime, 
"  In  characters  unworn  by  time  : 
"  Still,  ere  thou  dost  condemn  me — pause —          1060 
"  Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  cause ; 
"  Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done 
"  Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one ; 
"  Faithless  to  him — he  gave  the  blow, 
"  But  true  to  me — I  laid  him  low ;  1065 

u  Howe'er  deserv'd  her  doom  might  be, 
"  Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me ; 
"  To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 
u  Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  enthrall ; 
"  And  I,  alas !  too  late  to  save,  1 070 

"  Yet  all  I  then  could  give — I  gave — 
*'  'Twas  some  relief — our  foe  a  grave. 
"  His  death  sits  lightly ;  but  her  fate 
u  Has  made  me — what  thou  well  may'st  hate. 
"  His  doom  was  seaPd — he  knew  it  well,  1075 

in 


THE  GIAOUlt  53 

"  Warn'd  by  the  voice  of  stern  Taheer, 
"  Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear40 
"  The  deathshot  peal'd  of  murder  near — 
"As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell ! 

"  He  died  too  in  the  battle  broil —  1080 

"  A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil — 

"  One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 

"  One  prayer  to  Alia — all  he  made  : 

"  He  knew  and  crossed  me  in  the  fray— 

**  I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay,  1085 

41  And  watched  his  spirit  ebb  away; 

"  Though  pierced  like  Pard  by  hunters'  steel, 

"  He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 

"  I  search'd,  but  vainly  search'd  to  find, 

"  The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind;  1090 

41  Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 

"  Betrayed  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 

"  Oh,  what  had  Vengeance  given  to  trace 

"  Despair  upon  his  dying  face ! 

"  The  late  repentance  of  that  hour,  1095 

"  When  Penitence  hath  lost  her  power 


54  THE  GIAOUR. 

t€  To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave — 
"  And  will  not  soothe,  and  can  not  save! 

****** 

"  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 

"  Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name ;          1 100 
"  But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

"  That  boils  in  ^Etna's  breast  of  flame, 
"  I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
"  Of  ladye-love,  and  beauty's  chain  ; 
"  If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein-—  1 105 

"  Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain — 
"  If  bursting  heart,  and  mad'ning  brain — 
"  And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel — 
"  And  all  that  I  have  felt— and  feel — 
"  Betoken  love — that  love  was  mine,  1 110 

"  And  shewn  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 
"  'Tis  true,  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
"  I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
"  I  die — but  first  I  have  possest, 

"  And  come  what  may,  I  have  been  blest ;  1115 

"  Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid  ? 
"  No — reft  of  all — yet  undismayed 


THE  GIAOUR.  55 

"  But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 

"  Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 

"  So  would  I  live  and  love  again.  1 120 

"  I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide  ! 

"  For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died ; 

"  She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave, 

"  Ah  !  had  she  but  an  earthly  grave, 

"  This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head  1 125 

"  Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed. 

"  She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light — 

"  That  seen — became  a  part  of  sight, 

"  And  rose — where'er  I  turned  mine  eye — 

"  The  Morning-star  of  Memory !  1130 

"  Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven — 

"  A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
"  With  angels  shar'd — by  Alia  given, 

"  To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
"  Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above,  1 1 35 

"  But  Heaven  itself  descends  in  love — 
"  A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 
"  To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought — 


$6  THE  GIAOUK. 

!"  A  Ray  of  him  who  form'd  the  whole — 
"  A  Glory  circling  round  the  soul !  1 14O 

"  I  grant  my  love  imperfect — all 
"  That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall — 
"  Then  deem  it  evil — what  thou  wilt — 
"  But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt ! 
"  She  was  my  life's  unerring  light —  1145 

"  That  quench'd — what  beam  shall  break  my  night  ? 
"  Oh !  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
"  Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill! — 
"  Why  marvel  ye  ?  if  they  who  lose 

'  This  present  joy,  this  future  hope,  1 150 

"  No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope— 
"  In  phrenzy  then  their  fate  accuse — 
"  In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

"  That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe, 
"  Alas!  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds  115,5 

"  Hath  nought  to  dread  from  outward  blow — 
"  Who  falls  from  all  he  knows  of  bliss, 
"  Cares  little  into  what  abyss. — 
"  Fierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture's  now 

"  To  thee,  old  man,  my  deeds  appear —  1 1 60 


THE  GIAOUU.  57 

"  I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow, 

"  And  this  too  was  I  bom  to  bear! 
"  "Vis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey, 
"  With  havock  have  I  mark'd  my  way — 
"  But  this  was  taught  rue  by  the  dove —  1 16,5 

"  To  die — and  know  no  second  love. 
"  This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn, 
"  Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  spurn — 
"  The  bird  that  sings  within  the  brake, 
"  The  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake,  1 110 

"  One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take. 
"  And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range, 
"  And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change — 
"  Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys, 
"  I  envy  not  his  varied  joys —  1 175 

"  But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
"  Less  than  yon  solitary  swan — 
"  Far — far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
"  He  left  believing  and  betray'd. 

"  Such  shame  at  least  was  never  mine —  1 1 80 

"  Leila — each  thought  was  only  thine  ! — 
"  My  good,  my  guilt,  my  weal,  my  woe, 
"  My  hope  on  high — my  all  below. 


58  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  Earth  holds  no  other  like  to  thee, 

"  Or  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me —  1 185 

"  For  worlds  I  dare  not  view  the  dame 

"  Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 

"  The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth 

"  This  bed  of  death— attest  my  truth— 

"  'Tis  all  too  late — thou  wert — thou  art  1190 

"  The  cherished  madness  of  my  heart ! 

"  And  she  was  lost — and  yet  I  breathed, 

"  But  not  the  breath  of  human  life — 
u  A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed, 

"  And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. —  1195 

"  Alike  all  time — abhorred  all  place, 
tf  Shuddering  I  shrunk  from  Nature's  face, 
"  Where  every  hue  that  charmed  before 
"  The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore : — 
"  The  rest — thou  do'st  already  know,  1200 

"  And  all  my  sins  and  half  my  woe — 
"  But  talk  no  more  of  penitence, 
"  Thou  see'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence — 
"  And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true — 
"  The  deed  that's  done  can'st  thou  undo  ?  1205 


THE  GIAOUR 


.09 


Think  me  not  thankless — but  this  grief 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief.  4I 
My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess — 
But  vvoulcTst  thou  pity  more — say  less — 
When  thou  can'st  bid  my  Leila  live, 
Then'will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive; 
Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 
Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace — 
Go— when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 
From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young, 
And  calm  the  lonely  lioness — 
But  soothe  not — mock  not  my  distress ! 


"  In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours, 
"  When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 

"  Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers — 
"  I  had — Ah  !  have  I  now  ? — a  friend  ! — 

"  To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send — 

"  Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow  ; 

"  I  would  remind  him  of  my  end, — 

"  Though  souls  absorbed  like  mine  allow 

"  Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim, 

"  Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 


1210 


1215 


1225 


GO  THE  GIAOUR. 


"  'Tis  strange — he  prophesied  my  doom, 

"  And  I  have  smil'd — (I  then  could  smile — ) 

"  When  Prudence  would  his  voice  assume,  1230 

"  And  warn — I  reck'd  not  what — the  while — 

"  But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 

"  Those  accents  scarcely  mark'd  before. 

"  Say — that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 

"  And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth,  1235 

"  And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth, 

"  Tell  him — unheeding  as  I  was — 
"  Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 
"  Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been — 

"  In  pain,  rny  faultering  tongue  had  tried  1240 

"  To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died  ; 

"  But  heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away, 

"  If  Guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 

"  I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame — 

"  Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name ;  1245 

"  And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame  ? 

lt  I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn, 

"  Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn  ; 


THE  GIAOUR. 

• 

"  And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
"  May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier? 
"  But  bear  this  ring — his  own  of  old — 
"  And  tell  him — what  thou  dost  behold ! 
"  The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruined  mind, 
"  The  wrack  by  passion  left  behind — 
"  A  shrivelled  scroll,  a  scattered  leaf, 
"  Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief! 


f  I 


1250 


**  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam, 
"  No,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream  ; 
"  Alas !  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
"  I  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep ; 
"  But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
"  Throbb'd  to  the  very  brain  as  now. 
"  I  wish'd  but  for  a  single  tear, 
"  As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear; 
"  I  wish'd  it  then — I  wish  it  still, 
"  Despair  is  stronger  than  my  will. 
"  Waste  not  thine  orison — despair 
"  Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer ; 


1260 


THE  GIAOUR. 

"  I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest, 

"  I  want  no  paradise — but  rest.  1270 

"  'Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  father!  then 

"  I  saw  her — yes — she  liv'd  again  ; 

"  And  shining  in  her  white  symar,4* 

"  As  through  yon  pale  grey  cloud — the  star 

"  Which  now  I  gaze  on,  as  on  her  1275 

"  Who  look'd  and  looks  far  lovelier ; 

"  Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark — 

"  To-morrow's  night  shall  be  more  dark— 

"  And  I — before  its  rays  appear, 

"  That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear.  1280 

"  I  wander,  father !  for  my  soul 

"  Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal ; 

"  I  saw  her,  friar !  and  I  rose, 

"  Forgetful  of  our  former  woes  ; 

tl  And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  dart,  1285 

"  And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart ; 

"  I  clasp — what  is  it  that  I  clasp  ? 

"  No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 

"  No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine, 

"  Yet,  Leila !  vet  the  form  is  thine  !  1290 


THK  Gfiont. 


4'  And  art  thou,  dearest,  chang'd  so  much, 

"  As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch  ? 

"  Ah  !  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 

"  I  care  not  —  so  my  arms  enfold 

"  The  all  they  ever  wish'd  to  hold.  1295 

"  Alas  !  around  a  shadow  prest, 

(<  They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast  ; 

"  Yet  still  —  'tis  there  —  in  silence  stands, 

"  And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands  ! 

"  With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye—  1300 

"  I  knew  'twas  false  —  she  could  not  die  ! 

"  But  he  is  dead  —  within  the  deli 

"  I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell  ; 

"  He  comes  not  —  for  he  cannot  break 

"  From  earth  —  why  then  art  thou  awake  ?  1  305 

"  They  told  me,  wild  waves  rolPd  above 

"  The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love  ; 

"  They  told  me  —  'twas  a  hideous  tale  ! 

"  I'd  tell  it  —  but  my  tougue  would  fail  — 

"  If  true  —  and  from  thine  ocean-cave  13  W 

"  Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave  ; 

"  Oh  !  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 

"  This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more  ; 


64  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart — 
"  But,  shape  or  shade  ! — \vhute'er  thou  art,  131/5 

u  In  mercy,  ne'er  again  depart — 
"  Or  farther  with  thee  bear  my  soul, 
"  Than  winds  can  waft — or  waters  roll! — 
*          *          *          -x-          *          * 

"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale, 

"  Confessor — to  thy  secret  ear,  f  32O 

"  I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  bewail, 

"  And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
u  This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed, 
"  Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead, 
"  And  save  the  cross  above  my  head,  1 325 

"  Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread — 
"  By  prying  stranger  to  be  read, 
u  Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread." 
He  pass'd — nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace,  1330 

Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day ; 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  her  he  lov'd,  or  him  he  slew.43 


NOTES 


TO 


THE   GIAOUR, 


Note  I,  page  1,  line  3. 
TJiat  tomb,  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff". 
A   tomb  above   the  rocks  on  the   promontory,    by  some  supposed 
the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles. 

Note  2,  page  2,  line  7- 
Sultana  of  the  Nightingale. 

The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  is  a  well-known 
Persian  fable — if  I  mistake  not,  the  "  Bulbulofa  thousand  tales"  is  one 
of  his  appellations. 

Note  3,  page  3,  line  3. 
Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar. 
The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek  sailor  by  night, 

I  with  a  steady  fair  wind,  and  during  a  calm,  it  is  accompanied  always 
;>y  the  voice,  and  often  by  dancing. 


66  NOTES. 

Note  4,  page  4,  line  22. 
Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy. 
"  Aye,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 
"  To  lie  in  cold  obstruction." 

Measure  for  Measure,  Act  III.  130.  Sc.  2. 

Note  5,  page  5,  line  8. 
Thejirst — last  look — by  death  reveal'd. 

I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  opportunity  of  wit- 
nessing what  is  here  attempted  in  description,  but  those  who  have  will 
probably  retain  a  painful  remembrance  of  that  singular  beauty  which 
pervades,  with  few  exceptions,  the  features  of  the  dead,  a  few  hours, 
and  but  for  a  few  hours  after  "  the  spirit  is  not  there."  It  is  to  be  re- 
marked in  cases  of  violent  death  by  gun-shot  wounds,  the  expression  is 
always  that  of  languor,  whatever  the  natural  energy  of  the  sufferer's 
character;  but  in  death  from  a  stab  the  countenance  preserves  its  traits 
of  feeling  or  ferocity,  and  the  mind  its  bias,  to  the  last. 

Note  tj,  page  8,  line  5. 
Slaves — nay  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave. 

Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga,  (the  slave  of  the  seraglio 
and  guardian  of  the  women),  who  appoints  the  Waywode. — A  pandar 
and  eunuch — these  are  not  polite  yet  true  appellations — now  governs 
the  governor  of  Athens  ! 

Note  7,  page  10,  line  2. 
'Tis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour. 
Infidel. 

NoteS,  page  11,  line  16. 
In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike. 

f<  Tophaike/'  musquet. — The  Bairam  is  announced  by  the  cannon 
at  sunset ;  the  illumination  of  the  Mosques,  and  the  firing  of  all  kinds 
of  small  arms,  loaded  with  lall,  proclaim  it  during  the  night. 


NOTES. 


Note  9,  page  12,  line  CO. 
Swift  as  the  hnrlt  d  <>n  lii^li  jerreed. 

Jerreed,  or  Djerrid,  a  blunted  Turkish  javelin,  which  is  darted  from 
>rseback  with  great  force  and  precision.  It  is  a  favourite  exercise  of 
ic  Mussulmans  ;  but  I  know  not  if  it  can  be  called  a  manly  one,  since 
le  most  expert 'in  the  art  are  the  Bhtck  Eunuchs  of  Constantinople. — 
think,  next  to  these,  a  Mamlouk  at  Smyrna  was  the  most  skilful  that 
ne  within  my  own  observation. 

Note  10,  page  14,  line  8. 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom. 
The  blast  of  the  desart,  fatal  to  every  thing  living,  and  often  ai- 
led to  iu  eastern  poetry. 

Note  11,  page  17,  line  4. 
To  tless  the  sacred  "  Iread  and  salt" 

To  partake  of  food — to  break  bread  and  salt  with  your  host — insures 
ic  safety  of  the  guest,  even  though  an  enemy  j  his  person  from  that 
mient  is  sacred. 

Note  12,  page  17,  line  12. 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidefs  sabre. 
I   need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are   the  fir?t 
ities  enjoined  by  Mahomet ;  and  to  say  truth,  very  generally  practised 
his  disciples.     The  first  praise  that  can  be  bestowed  on  a  chief,  is  a 
mejiyric  on  his  bounty  ;  the  next,  on  his  valour. 

Note  13,    page  17,    line   16. 
And  silver-sheathed  ataghan. 
The  ataghan,  a  Ions;  dagger  worn   with  pistols  in  the  belt,  in  a 
metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver  -t  and,  among  the  wealthier,  gilt,  or 

of  gold. 


6S  NOTES. 

Note  14,  page  17,  line  18. 
An  Emir  ly  his  garb  of'  green. 

Green  is  the  privileged  colour  of  the  prophet's  numerous  pre- 
tended descendants ;  with  them,  as  here,  faith  (the  family  inheritance) 
is  supposed  to  supersede  the  necessity  of  good  works  j  they  are  the  worst 
of  a  very  indifferent  brood. 

Note  15,  page  17,  line  19. 
Ho  !  who  art  thou  ? — this  low  salam. 

Salarn  aleikoiun!  aleikoum  salam!  peace  be  with  you;  be  with 
you  peace — the  salutation  reserved  for  the  faithful; — to  a  Christian, 
"  Urlarula,"  a  good  journey  ;  or  saban  hiresem,  sabaii  serula ;  good 
morn,  good  even;  and  sometimes,  "  may  your  end  be  happy j"  are  the 
usual  salutes. 

Note  16,  page  19,  line  12. 
The  insect-queen  of  eastern  spring. 

The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Kashmeer,  the  most  rare  and  beau- 
tiful of  the  species. 

Note  17,  page  21,  line  15. 
Or  like  the  Scorpion  girt  ly  fire. 

Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so  placed  for  ex- 
periment by  gentle  philosophers.  Some  maintain  that  the  position  of  the 
sting,  when  turned  towards  the  head,  is  merely  a  convulsive  move- 
ment;  but  others  have  actually  brought  in  the  verdict  "  Felo  de  se." 
The  scorpions  are  surely  interested  in  a  speedy  decision  of  the  question  , 
as,  if  once  fairly  established  as  insect  Catos,  they  will  probably  be  al- 
lowed to  live  as  long  as  they  think  proper,  without  being  martyred  for 
the  sake  of  an  hypothesis. 

Note  18,  page  22,  line  11. 
When  Rhamazan's  last  sun  was  set. 
T^he  cannon  ar.  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan ;  see  note  8. 


NOTES.  69 

Note  19,  page  23,  line  8. 
Ky  pule  Phingaris  trembling  light. 
Phingari,  the  moon. 

Note  20,  page  23,  line  19 
Hright  as  tltc  jewel  of  Giamscliid. 

The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Ginmschid,  the  embellisher 
of  Jstakhar;  from  its  splendour,  named  Schebgerag,  "the  torch  of 
night ;"  also,  the  • '  cup  of  the  sun,"  &c. — In  the  first  editions  "  Giams- 
chid"  was  written  as  a  word  of  three  syllables,  so  D'Herbelot  has  it; 
but  I  am  told  Richardson  reduces  it  to  a  dissyllable,  and  writes  "  Jam- 
shid."  I  have  left  in  the  text  the  orthography  of  the  one  with  the 
pronunciation  of  the  other. 

Note  21 ,  page  24,  line  4. 
Though  on  Al-SiraCs  arch  I  stood. 

Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth  less  than  the  thread  of  a  famished 
spider,  over  which  the  Mussulmans  must  skate  into  Paradise,  to  which 
it  is  the  only  entrance  ;  but  this  is  not  the  worst,  the  river  beneath  being 
hell  itself,  into  which,  as  may  be  expected,  the  unskilful  and  tender  of 
foot  contrive  to  tumble  with  a  "  facilis  descensus  Averni,"  not  very 
pleasing  in  prospect  to  the  next  passenger.  There  is  a  shorter  cut  down- 
wards for  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

Note  22,  page  24,  line  9. 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed. 

A  vulgar  error;  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of  Paradise  to 
well-behaved  women  ;  but  by  far  the  greater  number  of  Mussulmans 
interpret  the  text  their  own  way,  and  exclude  their  moieties  from 
heaven.  Being  enemies  to  Platonics,  they  cannot  discern  "  any  fit- 
ness of  things"  in  the  souls  of  the  other  sex,  conceiving  them  to  be 
superseded  by  the  Houris. 


70  NOTES. 

Note  23,  page  24,  line  15. 
The  young  pomegranate  s  blossoms  strew. 

An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly  stolen,  be 
deemed  "  plus  Arabe  qu'en  Arabic." 

Note  24,  page  24,  line  17. 
Her  hair  in  hyacinlhine  flow. 

Hyacinthine,  in  Arabic,  "  Sunbul,"  as  common  a  thought  in  the 
eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  the  Greeks. 

Note  25,  page  25,  line  5. 
The  loveliest  bird  of  Frangueslan. 
'*  Franguestan,"  Circassia. 

Note  26,  page  28,  line  6. 
Bismillah  !  now  the  peril's  past. 

Bismillah — "  In  the  name  of  God;"  the  commencement  of  all 
the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one,  and  of  prayer  and  thanksgiving. 

Note  27,  page  29,  line  10. 
Then  curl'd  his  very  beard  with  ire. 

A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussulman.  In 
1809,  the  Capitan  Pacha's  whiskers  at  a  diplomatic  audience  were  no 
less  lively  with  indignation  than  a  tiger  cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all  the 
dragomans;  the  portentous  mustachios  twisted,  they  stood  erect  of  their 
own  accord,  and  were  expected  every  moment  to  change  their  colour, 
but  at  last  condescended  to  subside,  which,  probably,  saved  more  head's 
than  they  contained  hairs. 

Note  28,  page  29,  line  20. 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  ! 
"  Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 

Note  29,  page  30,  line  7. 
/  know  him   ly   the   evil  eye. 
The  "  evil  eye,"  a  common  superstition   in   the  Levant,  and  of 


NOTES* 


71 


which  the  imaginary  effects  are  yet  very  singular  on  those  who  conceive 
themselves  affected. 

Note  30,  page  32,  line  20. 
A  fragment   of  his  palampore. 
The  flowered  shawls  generally  worn  by  persons  of  rank. 

Note  31,  page  35,  line  13. 
His  calpac  rent — his  caftan  red. 

The  "  Calpac"  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  part  of  the  head-dre?s; 
the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  and  forms  the  turban. 

Note  32,  pageSG,  line  1. 
A  (urban  carv'd  in  coarsest  stone. 

The  turban — pillar— and  inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the  tombs  of 
the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the  cemetery  or  the  wilderness.  In  the 
mountains  you  frequently  pass  similar  mementos  $  and  on  enquiry  you 
are  informed  that  they  record  some  victim  of  rebellion,  plunder,  or 
revenge. 

Note  33,  page  36,  line  12. 
At  solemn  sound  of  "  Alia  Hu  /" 

"Alia  Hu!"  the  concluding  words  of  the  Muezzin's  call  to 
prayer  from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exterior  of  the  Minaret.  On  a 
still  evening,  when  the  Muezzin  has  a  fine  voice  (which  they  fre- 
quently have)  the  effect  is  solemn  and  beautiful  beyond  all  the  bells  in 
Christendom. 

Note  34,  page  36,  line  21. 
They  come — their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave. 

The  following  is  part  of  a  battle  song  of  the  Turks : — "  I  see— 1 
"  see  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  Paradise,  and  she  waves  a  handkerchief,  a 
"  kerchief  of  green  j  and  cries  aloud,  Come,  kiss  me,  for  I  love  thee," 
&c. 


72  NOTES. 

Note  35,  page  37,  line  4. 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's  scythe. 

Monklr  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  before  whom 
the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight  noviciate  and  preparatory  training  for 
damnation.  If  the  answers  are  none  of  the  clearest,  he  is  hauled  up 
with  a  scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a  red  hot  mace  till  properly  sea- 
soned, with  a  variety  of  subsidiary  probations.  The  office  of  these 
angels  is  no  sinecure  ;  there  are  but  two  ;  and  the  number  of  orthodox 
deceased  being  in  a  small  proportion  to  the  remainder,  their  hands  are 
always  full. 

Note  36,  page  37,  line  6. 
To  wander  round  lost  Ellis'  throne. 
Eblis  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness. 

Note  37,  page  37,  line  1 1 . 
Butjirst,  on  earth  as  Vampire  sent. 

The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Levant.  Honest 
Tournefort  tells  a  long  story,  which  Mr.  Southey,  in  the  notes  on 
Thalaba,  quotes  about  these  "  Vroucolochas,"  as  he  calls  them.  The 
Romaic  term  is  "  Vardoulacha."  I  recollect  a  whole  family  being 
terrified  by  the  scream  of  a  child,  which  they  imagined  must  proceed 
from  such  a  visitation.  The  Greeks  never  mention  the  word  without 
horror.  I  find  that  "  Broucolokas"  is  an  old  legitimate  Hellenic  ap- 
pellation— at  least  is  so  applied  to  Arsenius,  who,  according  to  the 
Greeks,  was  after  his  death  animated  by  the  Devil. — The  moderns, 
however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 

Note  38,  page  38,  line  17. 
Wet  with  thine  own  Lest  Hood  shall  drip. 

The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip  with  blood, 
are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a  Vampire.  The  stories  told  in  Hungary 
and  Greece  of  these  foul  feeders  are  singular,  and  some  of  them  most 
incredibly  attested.  \ 


NOTES. 


Note  39,  page  47,  line  1. 
It  is  as  if  the  desart-lird. 

The  pelican  Is,  I  believe,  the  hird  so  libelled,  by  the  imputation  of 
ling  her  chickens  with  her  blood. 

Note  40,  page  53,  line  2. 
Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear. 

This  superstition  of  a  second-hearing  (for  I  never  met  with  down- 
right second-sight  in  the  East)  fell  once  under  my  own  observation.— 
On  my  third  journey  to  Cape  Colonna  early  in  1811,  as  we  passed 
through  the  defile  that  leads  from  the  hamlet  between  Keratia  and 
Colonna,  I  observed  Dervish  Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of  the  path,  and 
leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  in  pain. — I  rode  up  and  enquired. 
"  We  are  in  peril,"  he  answered.     «'  What  peril  ?  we  are  not  now  in 
Albania,  nor  in  the  passes  to  Ephesus,  Messalunghi,  or  Lepanto;  there 
are  plenty  of  us,  well  armed,  and  the  Choriates  have  not  courage  to  be 
thieves  ?" — "  True,  Affendi,  but  nevertheless  the  shot  is  ringing  in  my 
ears." — "The  shot! — not  a  tophaike  has  been  fired  this  morning."— 
*'  I  hear  it  notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as  plainly  as  I  hear  your 
voice." — "  Psha." — "As   you  please,    Affendi;   if  it  is   written,   so 
will   it  be." — I  left   this  quickeared  predestinarian,  and  rode  up  to 
Basili,  his  Christian  compatriot ;  whose  ears,  though  not  at  all  prophetic, 
by  no  means  relished  the  intelligence. — We  all  arrived  at  Colonna, 
remained  some  hours,  and  returned  leisurely,  saying  a  variety  of  bril- 
liant things,  in  more  languages  than  spoiled  the  building  of  Babel,  upon 
the  mistaken  seer.     Romaic,  Arnaout,  Turkish,  Italian,  and  English 
were  all  exercised,  in  various  conceits,  upon  the  unfortunate  Mussulman. 
While  we  were  contemplating  the  beautiful  prospect,  Dervish  was 
occupied  about  the  columns. — I  thought  he  was  deranged  into  an 
antiquarian,  and  asked*  him  if  he  had  become  a  "  Palao-castro"  man  : 
"  No,"  said  he,  "  but  these  pillars  will  be  useful  in  making  a  stand  ;" 
and  added  other  remarks,  which  at  least  evinced  his  own  belief  in  hit 

o 


*4  NOTES. 

troublesome  faculty  of  fore-hearing. — On  our  return  to  Athens,  we 
heard  from  Leone  (a  prisoner  set  ashore  some  days  after)  of  the  in- 
tended attack  of  the  Mai  notes,  mentioned,  with  the  cause  of  its  not 
taking  place,  in  the  notes  to  Childe  Harolde,  Canto  2d. — I  was  at 
some  pains  to  question  the  man,  and  he  described  the  dresses,  arms, 
and  marks  of  the  horses  of  our  party  so  accurately,  that  with  other 
circumstances,  we  could  not  doubt  of  his  having  been  in  "  villanous 
company,"  and  ourselves  in  a  bad  neighbourhood. — Dervish  became 
a  soothsayer  for  life,  and  J.  dare  say  is  now  hearing  more  muscjuetry 
than  ever  will  be  fired,  to  the  great  refreshment  of  the  Arnaouts  of 
Berat,  and  his  native  mountains. — I  shall  mention  one  trait  more  of 
this  singular  race. — In  March  1811,  a  remarkably  stout  and  active 
Arnaont  came  (I  believe  the  50th  on  the  same  errand,)  to  offer  himself 
as  an  attendant,  which  was  declined :  "Well,  Affendi/'quoth  he,  "may 
you  live ! — you  would  have  found  me  useful.  I  shall  leave  the  town  for 
the  hills  to-morrow,  in  the  winter  I  return,  perhaps  you  will  then 
receive  me." — Dervish,  who  was  present,  remarked  as  a  thing  of  course, 
And  of  no  consequence,  "  in  the  mean  time  he  will  join  the  Klephtes," 
(robbers),  which  was  true  to  the  letter. — If  not  cut  off,  they  come  down 
in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  unmolested  in  some  town,  where  they  are 
pften  as  well  known  as  their  exploits. 

Note 41,  page  59,  lines. 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief. 

The  monk's  sermon  is  omitted.  It  seems  to  have  had  so  little  effect 
upon  the  patient,  that  it  could  have  no  hopes  from  the  reader.  It  may 
be  sufficient  to  say,  that  it  was  of  a  customary  length,  (as  may  be  per- 
ceived from  the  interruptions  and  uneasiness  of  the  penitent),  and  was 
delivered  in  the  nasal  tone  of  all  orthodox  preachers. 

Note  42,  page  62,  line  5. 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar. 
,"  Symar" — Shroud. 


NOTES.  75 

Note  43,  page  64,  last  line. 

The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  relates  was  not  very  un- 
common in  Turkey.  A  few  years  ago  the  wife  of  Much  tar  Pacha  com- 
plained to  his  father  of  his  son's  supposed  infidelity ;  he  asked  with 
whom,  and  she  had  the  barbarity  to  give  in  a  list  of  the  twelve  hand- 
somest women  in  Yanina.  They  were  seized,  fastened  up  in  sacks,  and 
drowned  in  the  lake  the  same  night !  One  of  the  guards  who  was 
present  informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a  cry,  or  shewed 
a  symptom  ot'  terror  at  so  sudden  a  "  wrench  from  all  we  know, 
from  all  we  love."  The  fate  of  Phrosine,  the  fairest  of  this  sacrifice, 
is  the  subject  of  many  a  Romaic  and  Arnaut  ditty.  The  story  in  the 
text  is  one  told  of  a  young  Venetian  many  years  ago,  and  now  nearly 
forgotten. — I  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of  the  coffee-house 
story-tellers  who  abound  in  the  Levant,  and  sing  or  recite  their  narra- 
tives.— The  additions  and  interpolations  by  the  translator  will  be  easily 
distinguished  from  the  rest  by  the  want  of  Eastern  imagery;  and  I  re- 
gret that  my  memory  has  retained  so  few  fragments  of  the  original. 

For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  indebted  partly  to  D'Her- 
belut,  and  partly  to  that  most  eastern,  and,  as  Mr.  Webb  justly  entitles 
it,  "  sublime  tale,"  the  "  Caliph  Vathek."  I  do  not  know  from  what 
source  the  author  of  that  singular  volume  may  have  drawn  his  materials; 
some  of  his  incidents  are  to  be  found  in  the  "Bibliotheque  Orientals ;" 
but  for  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and  power  of 
imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all  European  imitations;  and  bears  such 
marks  of  originality,  that  those  who  have  visited  the  East  will  find  some 
difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an  Eastern 
tale,  even  Rasselas  -must  bow  before  it ;  his  s *  Happy  Valley"  will  not 
hear  a  comparison  with  the  "  Hall  of  Eblis." 


T.  DAVISON,  Lombard-street, 
Whitefriars,  London. 


THE 


BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


A    TURKISH   TALE. 


BY  LORD  BYRON. 


lind  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
We  had  r,e'«r  been  broken-hearted. 


EIGHTH  EDITION. 


LONDON: 

Printed  ly  Thomas  Datison,  WJiitcfrinrs, 
FOR   JOHN    MURRAY,   ALBEMARLE-STREF.T. 

1814. 


TO 
THE    RIGHT    HONOURABLE 

LORD  HOLLAND, 

THIS  TALE 

IS  INSCRIBED,  WITH 

EVERY  SENTIMENT  OF  REGARD 

AND  RESPECT, 

BY  HIS  GRATEFULLY  OBLIGED 
AND  SINCERE  FRIEND, 

BYRON. 


Hd 


THE 

BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

CANTO  I. 


I. 

KNOW  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 

Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture — the  love  of  the  turtle — 
Now  melt  into  sorrow — now  madden  to  crime  ?-— 

Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine  ? 

Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine, 

Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed  with  perfume, 

Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul x  in  her  bloom ; 

Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 

And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute ;  10 

Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 

In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 

And  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  in  die ; 

Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 

And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine— 


\  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

'Tis  the  clime  of  the  east — 'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ?  * 
Oh !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell. 

II. 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave,  20 

Apparelled  as  becomes  the  brave, 
Awaiting  each  his  Lord's  behest 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest, 
Old  Giaffir  sate  in  his  Divan, 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye ; 
And  though  the  face  of  Mussulman 

Not  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skilPd  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 

His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow  30 

Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 

III. 

"  Let  the  chamber  be  cleared" — the  train  disappeared— 
"  Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Haram  guard—"* 

With  Giaffir  is  none  but  his  only  son, 

And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire's  award. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  3 

"  Haroun — when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 

"  Are  passed  beyond  the  outer  gate, 

"  ( Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 

"  My  child  Zuleika's  face  unveiled  !) 

"  Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower —  40 

"  Her  fate  is  fixed  this  very  hour  ; 

"  Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought— 

"  By  me  alone  be  duty  taught ! " 

"  Pacha !  to  hear  is  to  obey.—" 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way, 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet ; 
And  downcast  looked,  and  gently  spake, 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet —  50 

For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 

Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire ! 

» 

"  Father!— for  fear  that  thou  should'st  chide 
"  My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide — 
"  Know — for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be, 
"  Was  mine — then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me ! 

B2 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

0 

"  So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 

te  That — let  the  old  and  weary  sleep — 
"  I  could  not ;  and  to  view  alone 

"  The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep,  60 

"  With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
"  To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high 
"  Were  irksome — for  whatever  my  mood, 
"  In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude : 
"  I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke, 
"  And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 
"  Soon  turns  the  Haram's  grating  key, 
"  Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke 
"  We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown, 
"  And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own !  70 

u  There  h'ngered  we,  beguiled  too  long 
"  With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song ;  3 
"  Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour  4 

"  Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour — 

"  To  thee  and  to  my  duty  true, 

"  Warn'd  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew : 

"  But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 

"  Nay,  father,  frown  not — nor  forget 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower. 


IV. 

*  Son  of  a  slave !" — the  Pacha  said — 
"  From  unbelieving  mother  bred, 

"  Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 
"  Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 
"  Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 
"  And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
"  Thou  Greek  in  soul,  if  not  in  creed, 
"  Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
"  And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 
"  Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
"  Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire, 
"  Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire ! 
"  Thou,  who  would'st  see  this  battlement 
"  By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent— 
"  Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol's  wall 
"  Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall — 
"  Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 

*  Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth  ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

«  Go— let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 

"  Assume  the  distaff — not  the  brand.  1 00 

"  But,  Haroun ! — to  my  daughter  speed — 

"  And  hark — of  thine  own  head  take  heed — 

"  If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 

"  Thou  see'st  yon  bow — it  hath  a  string !" 

V. 

No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard, 

At  least  that  met  old  GiamYs  ear, 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword — 

"  Son  of  a  slave ! — reproached  with  fear — 

"  Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear.  110 

"  Son  of  a  slave ! — and  who  my  sire  ?" 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career, 
And  glances  even  of  more  than  ire 

Flash  forth — then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started — for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done, 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun — 

"  Come  hither,  boy — what,  no  reply  ? 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  7 

*  I  mark  thee — and  I  know  thee  too  ;  1 20 
"  But  there  be  deeds  thou  dar'st  not  do : 

"  But  if  thy  beard  had  manlier  length, 
"  And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
"  I'd  joy  to  see  thee  break  a  lance, 
"  Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 

As  sneeriugly  these  accents  fell, 
On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed — 

That  eye  returned  him  glance  for  glance, 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir's  quailed  and  shrunk  askance—  130 

And  why — he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. — 
"  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
"  Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy — 
"  I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 
"  And — but  his  arm  is  little  worth, 
**  And  scarcely  in  the  chace  could  cope 
"  With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 
"  Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
"  Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life— 
"  I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone —  140 

*  No— nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own— 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  That  blood— he  hath  not  heard — no  more— 

• 

"  I'll  watch  him  closer  than  before — 
"  He  is  an  Arab s  to  my  sight, 
"  Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight. — 
"  But  hark  ! — I  hear  Zuleika's  voice, 

"  Like  Houris'  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear ; 
"  She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice — 

"  Oh  !  more  than  even  her  mother  dear, 
"  With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear,  15O 

"  My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here  ! 
"  Sweet,  as  the  desart-fountain's  wave 
"  To  lips  just  cooled  in  time  to  save — 
"  Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou  ; 
"  Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrine 
"  More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine 

"  Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now," 

VI. 

Fair — as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind — 
When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiling, 

Whose  image  then  was  stamped  upon  her  mind—          160 
But  once  beguiled — and  ever  more  beguiling ; 


THE  BRIDK  OK  ABYDOS.  9 

Dazzling — as  that,  oh!  too  transcendant  vision 

To  Sorrow's  phantom-peopled  slumber  given, 
When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams  Elysian, 

And  paints  the  lost  on  Earth  revived  in  Heaven — 
Soft — as  the  memory  of  buried  love — 
Pure — as  the  prayer  which  Childhood  wafts  above — 
Was  she — the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  Chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not  of  grief. 

Who  hath  not  proved — how  feebly  words  essay  170 

To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly  ray? 

Who  doth  not  feel — until  his  failing  sight 

Faints  into  dimness  with  its  own  delight — 

His  changing  cheek — his  sinking  heart  confess 

The  might — the  majesty  of  Loveliness  ? 

Such  was  Zuleika — such  around  her  shone 

The  nameless  charms  unmarked  by  her  alone — 

The  light  of  love — the  purity  of  grace — 

The  mind — the  Music  breathing  from  her  face !  * 

The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole —         180 

And,  oh !  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  Soul ! 


10  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 

Across  her  gently-budding  breast — 
At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 

To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 

His  child  caressing  and  carest, 

Zuleika  came — and  Giaffir  felt 

His  purpose  half  within  him  melt; 

Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 

His  heart  though  stern  could  ever  feel —  190 

Affection  chained  her  to  that  heart — 

Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 

VII. 

"  Zuleika — child  of  gentleness ! 

"  How  dear — this  very  day  must  tell, 
"  When  I  forget  my  own  distress 

"  In  losing  what  I  love  so  well 

"  To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell, 
"  Another — and  a  braver  man 

"  Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
"  We  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood —  200 

"  But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman  7 
"  Unchanged — unchangeable  hath  stood, 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  1  1 


"  First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 

"  That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 

"  Enough  —  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 

"  Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou  — 

"  His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  employ  — 

"  I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy  — 

"  And  thou  shalt  have  a  noble  dower: 

"  And  his  and  my  united  power 

u  Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 

"  Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan  — 

"  And  teach  the  messenger8  what  fate 

"  The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 

"  And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will  — 

"  All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know  — 
"  'Twas  mine  to  teach  obedience  still, 

"  The  way  to  lore,  thy  lord  may  shew." 


VIII. 

In  silence  bowed  the  virgin's  head  — 

And  if  her  eye  was  filled  with  tears  220 

That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 

And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 

Those  -winged  words  like  arrows  sped — 
What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears  ? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty's  eye 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry — 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 
Even  Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less ! 

Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot —  230 

Or  if  remembered,  marked  it  not—- 
Thrice clapped  his  hands,  and  called  his  steed, 
Resigned  his  gem-adorn'd  Chibouque, 10 
And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 
With  Maugrabee  " — and  Mamaluke — 
His  way  amid  his  Delis  took,  " 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen — or  blunt  jereed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch  well  the  Haram's  massy  doors.  240 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 

His  eye  looked  o'er  the  dark  blue  water, 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  13 

That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand, 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turbaned  band 

Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter ; 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt13 
With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt — 
Nor  marked  the  javelin-darting  crowd,  250 

Nor  heard  their  Ollahs14  wild  and  loud — • 

He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter. 


I 


No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke — 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke — 
Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 
Pale — mute — and  mournfully  sedate. — 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turned, 
But  little  from  his  aspect  learned ; 
Equal  her  grief — yet  not  the  same, 
Her  heart  confessed  a  gentler  flame- 
But  yet  that  heart  alarmed  or  weak, 
She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak — 


14  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay — 
"  How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  away ! 
"  Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met, 
"  Not  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet." — 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room, 
And  watched  his  eye — it  still  was  fixed — 
She  snatched  the  urn  wherein  was  mixed 
,      The  Persian  Atar-gul's'5  perfume,  270 

And  sprinkled  all  it's  odours  o'er 
The  pictured  roof16  and  marble  floor — 
The  dropsy  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  girl's  appeal  addrest, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew, 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too — 
"  What  sullen  yet  ?  it  must  not  be — 
*  Oh !  gentle  Selim,  this  from  thee !" 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Eastern  land —  280 

"  He  loved  them  once — may  touch  them  yet, 
"  If  offered  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  Rose  was  pluck'd  and  wreathed— 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


15 


The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 

Her  fairy  form  at  Selim's  feet — 

"  This  rose  to  calm  my  brother's  cares 

"  A  message  from  the  Bulbul17  bears; 

"  It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong, 

"  For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song —  290 

"  And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad, 

"  He'll  try  for  once  a  strain  more  glad, 

"  With  some  faint  hope  his  altered  lay 

"  May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

XL 

"  What — not  receive  my  foolish  flower  ? — 

"  Nay  then  I  am  indeed  unblest : 

"  On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower  ? 

"  And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  thee  best  ? 

"  Oh,  Setim  dear ! — Oh,  more  than  dearest ! 

"  Say,  is  it  I  thou  hat'st  or  fearest?  300 

"  Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 

"  And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest, 

"  Since  words  of  mine — and  songs  must  fail, 

"  Even  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 


16  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

<f  I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stern, 

"  But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn — 

"  Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not, 

"  But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 

"  Ah  !  deem  I  right  ?  the  Pacha's  plan — 

"  This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman  310 

"  Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine — 

"  If  so — I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine, 

"If  shrines,  that  ne'er  approach  allow 

"  To  woman's  step,  admit  her  vow — 

"  Without  thy  free  consent,  command — 

"  The  Sultan  should  not  have  my  hand! 

"  Think'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 

"  With  thee — and  learn  to  halve  my  heart  ? 

"  Ah !  were  I  severed  from  thy  side, 

"  Where  were  thy  friend — and  who  my  guide  ?        320 

4e  Years  have  not  seen — Time  shall  not  see 

"  The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee — 

"  Even  Azrael l8  from  his  deadly  quiver 

"  When  flies  that  shaft— and  fly  it  must— 
"  That  parts  all  else — shall  doom  for  ever 

"  Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust!" 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


17 


XII. 

He  lived — he  breathed — he  moved— he  felt — 

He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt — 

His  trance  was  gone — his  keen  eye  shone 

With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt —  330 

With  thoughts  that  burn — in  rays  that  melt. — 

As  the  stream  late  concealed 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows — 
When  it  rushes  revealed 

In  the  light  of  its  billows, — 
As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it — 
Flash'd  the  soul  of  that  eye 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 

A  warhorse  at  the  trumpet's  sound,  SIO 

A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound ; 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 
Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 
Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  displayed, 
And  all,  before  repressed,  betrayed. 


18  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  Now  thou  art  mine,  for  ever  mine, 

"  With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign ; — 

"  Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 

"  Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. 

"  Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done, 

"  That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one : — 

"  But  blench  not  thou — thy  simplest  tress 

"  Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness ; 

"  I  would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair 

"  That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 

"  For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 

"  Within  the  caves  of  Istakar. l9 

"  This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lowered, 

"  Reproaches  on  my  head  were  showered,  360 

"  And  Giaffir  almost  called  me  coward! 

"  Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave, 

"  The  son  of  his  neglected  slave  : 

"  Nay,  start  not — 'twas  the  term  he  gave — 

"  May  shew,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 

"  A  heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 

"  His  son,  indeed ! — yet,  thanks  to  thee, 

"  Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be ; 


THK  KRIDK  OF  ABYDOS. 


"  But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 

"  Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 

"  I  know  the  wretch  who  dare*  demand 

"  From  Giaftir  thy  reluctant  hand ; 

"  More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul 

"  Holds  not  a  Musselini's 20  control ; 

"  Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo  ? " 

"  A  viler  race  let  Israel  show  ! 

"  But  let  that  pass — to  none  be  told 

"  Our  oath — the  rest  shall  time  unfold ; 

"  To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey, 

"  I've  partizans  for  peril's  day; 

"  Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear, 

"  I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near.' 

XIII. 

"  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest ! 

"  My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed  ; 
"  This  morn  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest, 

"  But  now  thou'rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
"  My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before, 
*'  It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more, 

c2 


370 


380 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay, 

"  And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why,  3!*0 

"  Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day — 
'  With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 
"  I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny : 
"  Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss, 
"  Like  this — and  this — no  more  than  this, 
"  For,  Alia !  sure  thy  lips  are  flame, 

"  What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing  ? 
"  My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same, 

"At  least  I  feel  my  cheek  too  blushing. 
"  To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health,  400 

(t  Partake,  but  never  \?aste  thy  wealth, 
"  Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 
"  And  lighten  half  thy  poverty ; 
"  Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye, 
"  For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try ; 
"  To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspii 
"  More  can  I  do  ?  or  thou  require  ? 
"  But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
"  We  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  2) 

"  The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell,  410 

"  But  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  'tis  well ; 

"  Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  '  arms'  and  '  friends', 

"  Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends — 

"  I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

"  The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee  ; 
"  His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word — 

"  But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free ; 

"  Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me 
"  To  be  what  I  have  ever  been  ? 

"  What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen  4-:0 

"  From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour  ? 

"  What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
"  Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

"  The  partner  of  her  infancy  ? 
"  These  cherished  thoughts  with  life  begun, 

"  Say,  why  must  I  no  more  avow  ? 
"  What  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 

"  The  truth — my  pride — and  thine  till  now  ? 
"  To  meet  the  gaze  of  strangers  eyes 
"  Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies ;  430 

"  Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
"  At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine  : 


22  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS, 

"  No — happier  made  by  that  decree, 

"  He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 

"  Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compelled 

"  To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld — 

"  This — wherefore  should  I  not  reveal  ? 

"  Why  wilt  thoti  urge  me  to  conceal  ? 

"  I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 

"  To  thee  hath  never  boded  good ;  440 

"  And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 

"  Allah  !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 

"  And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 

"  My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 

"  If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime, 

"  And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here ; 
"  Oh,  Selim  !  tell  me  yet  in  time, 

"  Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 
"  Ah !  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar, " 
"  My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war ;  450 

"  I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye — 
"  Say,  Selim,  can'st  thou  tell  me  why  ?" 


THE  BRIDK  OF  ABYDOS. 

XIV. 

"  Zuleika — to  thy  tower's  retreat 

"  Betake  thee — Giaffir  I  can  greet; 

"  And  now  with  him  t  fain  must  prate 

"  Of  firmans,  imposts,  levies,  state  : 

"  There's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks, 

"  Our  Vizier  nobly  thins  his  ranks, 

"  For  which  the  Giour  may  give  him  thanks ! 

"  Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way  46() 

"  Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 

"  But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 

"  Hath  warned  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 
*  Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come: 

"  Then  softly  from  the  Haram  creep 

"  Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep, 

"  Our  garden-battlements  are  steep : 
"  Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
"  To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time ; 
"  And  if  he  doth — I  want  not  steel  470 

"  Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 
"  Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
"  Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before; 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  Trust  me,  Zuleika — fear  not  me ! 
"  Thou  kuow'st  I  hold  a  Haram  key." 

"  Fear  thee,  my  Selim  !  ne'er  till  now 
"  Did  word  like  this—" 

"  Delay  not  thou; 

"  I  keep  the  key — and  Haroun's  guard 
"  Have  some,  and  hope,  of  more  reward.  480 

"  To  night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
"  My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear — 
"  I  am  not,  love!  what  I  appear." 


END  OF  CANTO  I. 


THE 


BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO  II. 


THE  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love — who  sent — forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh !  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  warn'd  him  home  ; 
And  clouds  aloft,  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  sounds  forbade  to  go, 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear ; 


10 


26  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 

The  only  star  it  hail'd  above ; 

His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 

"  Ye  waves  divide  not  lovers  long !" 

That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 

May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 

II. 

The  winds  are  high — and  Helle's  tide  20 

Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main; 
And  Night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  field  with  blood  bedew'd  in  vain; 
The  desart  of  old  Priam's  pride — 

The  tombs — sole  relics  of  his  reign — 
All,  save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle ! 

III. 

Oh !  yet — for  there  my  steps  have  been, 

These  feet  have  press'd  the  sacred  shore, 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne—  30 

Minstrel !  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn — 
To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yoi 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


'27 


Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes — 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 

Thine  own  "  broad  Hellespont"  23  still  dashes 
Be  long  my  lot — and  cold  were.he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee ! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme — 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 

But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  still. 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow;— 
That  mighty  heap  of  gather'd  ground 
Which  Ammon's  *4  son  ran  proudly  round, 
By  nations  rais'd,  by  monarchs  crown'd, 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow 

Within — thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow ! 
Without — can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  wan  beneath. 


50 


28  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDQS, 

Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone — 
But  Thou— thy  very  dust  is  gone! 

y. 

Late,  late  to  night  will  Dian  cheer 

The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear ; 

Till  then — no  beacon  on  the  cliff 

May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff; 

The  scatter'd  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away;  60 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 

Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes,  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 

And  o'er  her  silken  Ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran  ;25 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget  ? 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet,26 

Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text,  10 

Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next; 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

And  by  her  Comboloio27  lies 

A  Koran  of  illumin'd  dyes  ; 

And  many  a  bright  emblazoned  rhyme 

By  Persian  scribes  redeemed  from  time  ; 

And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute, 

Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute; 

And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 

Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould  ; 

The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom, 

And  Sheeraz5  tribute  of  perfume; 

All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gather'd  in  that  gorgeous  room  — 
But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom.  — 

She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite, 

What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a  night  ? 

VI. 
Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear, 
To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 

As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear  . 


29 


f;o 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  threading, 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 

The  gust  its  hollow  moanings  made, 
Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat, 

The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide ; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 

How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side? 

How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide  ? 

VII. 

The}7  reach'd  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn  100 

By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 

And  oft  her  Koran  conned  apart ; 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dream'd  what  Paradise  might  be- 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdain'd  to  show ; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure, 
Nor  deem'd  she,  could  he  long  endure 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

His  bower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss, 
Without  her  most  beloved  in  this ! 
Oh !  who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell '. 
What  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well  ? 


31 


110 


VIII. 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spot 

Some  change  seem'd  wrought  within  the  grot: 

It  might  be  only  that  the  night 

Disguis'd  things  seen  by  better  light — 

That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 

A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue; 

But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell  1 20 

Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 

There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 

The  turban'd  Delis  in  the  field ; 

But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 

And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guilt — 

Ah!  how  without  can  Mood  be  spilt? 

A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 

That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean — she  turn'd  to  see 

Her  Selim— "  Oh !  can  this  be  he  ?"  1 30 


32  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 
His  brow  no  high-crown'd  turban  bore, 

But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 

Wreath'd  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore : — 

That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 

Were  worthy  of  a  diadem, 

No  longer  glitter'd  at  his  waist, 

Where  pistols  unadorn'd  were  braced. 

And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 

And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung  140 

The  cloak  of  white — the  thin  capote 

That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote : 

Beneath — his  golden  plated  vest 

Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast — 

The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 

With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound. 

But  were  it  not  that  high  command 

Spake  in  his  eye — and  tone  and  hand — 

All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 

In  him  was  some  young  Galiong£e.*s  150 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  33 

X. 

"  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seemed — 

"  And  now  thou  seest  my  words  were  true; 

"  I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dreamed, 
"  If  sooth — its  truth  must  others  rue. 

"  My  story  now  'twere  vain  to  hide, 

"  I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride : 

"  But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 

"  How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 

"  I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 

"  The  darker  secret  of  my  own. —  160 

"  In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love — 

"  That — let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove ; 

"  But  first — Oh !  never  wed  another — 

"  Zuleika !  I  am  not  thy  brother !" 

XL 

"  Oh !  not  my  brother! — yet  unsay — 

• 
"  God !  am  I  left  alone  on  earth  F — 

"  To  mourn — I  dare  not  curse — the  day 
"  That  saw  my  solitary  birth ! 

D 


34  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  Oh !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more ! 

"  My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill ; 
"  But  know  me  all  I  was  before, 

*'  Thy  sister— friend— Zuleika  still. 
"  Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 

"  If  thou  hast  cause  for  vengeance — See ! 
"  My  breast  is  offered— take  thy  fill ! 
"  Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 
"  Than  live  thus  nothing  now  to  thee — 
"  Perhaps  far  worse — for  now  I  know 
"  Why  Giaffir  always  seemed  thy  foe; 
"  And  I,  alas  !  am  Giaffir's  child, 
**  For  whom  thou  wert  contemned — reviled—- 
"  If  not  thy  sister — would st  thou  save 
"  My  life— Oh !  bid  me  be  thy  slave !" 

XII. 

"  My  slave,  Zuleika ! — nay,  I'm  thine  : 
"  But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm, 

"  Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  linked  with  mine ; 

"  I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine, 

"  And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


35 


"  So  may  the  Koran*9  verse  displayed 

"  Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade,  190 

"  In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both, 

"  As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath  ! 

"  The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 

"  Must  change — but,  my  Zuleika,  know/ 
"  That  tie  is  widened — not  divided —    - 

"  Although  thy  Sire's  my  deadliest  foe. 
"  My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

"  That  Selim  late  was  deemed  to  thee ; 
"  That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

"  But  spared — at  least,  my  infancy —  200 

"  And  lulled  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
"  That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
"  He  reared  me — not  with  tender  help — 

"  But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain, 30 
'•  He  watched  me  like  a  lion's  whelp, 

"  That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 

"  My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
"  Is  boiling — but  for  thy  dear  sake 
{<  No  present  vengeance  will  I  take- 
Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain.  £  10 

D  2 


36  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  But  first— beloved  Zuleika !— hear 

"  How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 

XIII. 

"  How  first  their  strife  to  rancour  grew — 

"  If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes — 
"  It  matters  little  if  I  knew ; 
*'  In  fiery  spirits,  slights  though  few 

"  And  thoughtless  will  disturb  repose : 
"  In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
"  Remembered  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 
"  And  PaswanV1  rebel  hordes  attest  220 

"  How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest. 
"  His  death  is  all  I  need  relate, 
«  The  stem  effect  of  Giaffir's  hate  ; 
"  And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 
"  Whatever  beside  it  makes — hath  made  me — free.. 

XIV. 

"  When  Paswan,  after  years  of  strife, 
"  At  last  for  power — but  first  for  life — 
"  In  Widin's  walls  too  proudly  sate — 
a  Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state  j 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  37 

"  Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command  230 

"  Each  brother  led  a  separate  band ; 

"  They  gave  their  horsetails31  to  the  wind, 

"  And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
"  Their  tents  were  pitched — their  post  assigned — 

"  To  one,  alas !  assigned  in  vain ! — 
"  What  need  of  words  ? — the  deadly  bowl, 

u  By  GiafhVs  order  drugged  and  given, 
"  With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul, 

"  Dismissed  Abdallah's  hence  to  heave.n. 
"  Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath,  240 

"  He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up, 
"  But  little  deemed  a  brother's  wrath 

"  To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup. 
"  The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore, 
"  He  drank  one  draught33 — nor  needed  more! 
"  If  thou  my  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt — 
"  Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out. 


XV. 

"  The  deed  once  done — and  Paswan's  feud 
"  In  part  suppressed — though  ne'er  subdued — 


38  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  Abdallah's  Pachalick  was  gained —  '   250 

"  (Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
"  Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man) : 

"  Abdallah's  honours  were  obtained 

"  By  him  a  brother's  murder  stained ; 

"  Tis  true — the  purchase  nearly  drained 

"  His  ill  got  treasure — soon  replaced — 

"  Would'st  question  whence  ? — Survey  the  waste — 

"  And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 

"  His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow  ! 

"  Why  me  the  stern  usurper  spared,  .260 

"  Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 

"  I  know  not. — Shame — regret — remorsfi— 

"  And  little  fear  from  infant's  force — 

"  Besides — adoption  as  a  son 

"  By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none: 

"  Or  some  unknown  cabal — caprice — 

"  Preserved  me  thus,  but  not  in  peace ; 

"  He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 

"  Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blood. 


Till-  HRIDK  OF  ABYDOS. 


39 


XVI. 

u  Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes —  270 

"  Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true ; 
"  To  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 

"  His  days — his  very  hours  were  few : 
"  They  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
<{  A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
u  But  Ilaroun  only  knows — or  knew 

"  This  tale — whose  close  is  almost  nigh — 
"  He  in  Abdallah's  palace  grew, 

"  And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

"  Which  holds  he  here— he  saw  him  die :  280 

"  But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 
"  Avenge  his  lord — alas !  too  late — 
"  Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 
"  He  chose  the  last — and  when  elate 

"  With  foes  subdued— or  friends  betrayed — 
"  Proud  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
"  He  led  me  Uelpless  to  his  gate, 

"  And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essayed 

"  To  save  the  life  for  which  lie  prayed. 


40  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS 

"  The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured  290 

"  From  all  and  each — but  most  from  me ; 
"  Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  ensured, 

"  Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
"  To  this  our  Asiatic  side, 
"  Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide — 

"  With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
"  Such  knowledge — and  that  Nubian  feels 

"  A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains, 
"  From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 
"  And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals.  300 

"  Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends 
"  Slaves — tools — accomplices — no  friends! 

XVII. 

"  All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds 

"  But  harsher  still  my  tale  must  be, 
"  Howe'er  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounds, 

"  Yet  I  must  prove  all  truth  to  thee; 

"  I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see, 
"  Yet  is  it  one  I  oft  have  worn, 

"  And  long  must  wear — this  Galiongee 
"  To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn,  810 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


"  Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 

"  Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords ; 
"  To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
"  Would  make  thy  waning  cheek  more  pale ; 
"  Those  arms  thou  see'st  my  band  have  brought, 
"  Tbe  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote ; 
"  This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

"  Is  filled — once  quaffed,  they  ne'er  repine, 
"  Our  Prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves, 

"  They're  only  infidels  in  wine.  320 


XVIII. 

What  could  I  be  ? — Proscribed  at  home, 

And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam ; 

And  listless  left — for  GiafnYs  fear 

Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear; 

Though  oft — Oh,  Mahomet !  how  oft 

In  full  Divan  the  despot  scoffed, 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand  : 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 

And  pent  me  here  untried — unknown—  830 


4-2  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left, 

"  By  hope  unblest — of  fame  bereft. 

"  While  thou — whose  softness  long  endeared, 

"  Though  it  unmanned  me,  still  had  cheered — 

"  To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 

"  Awaited'st  there  the  field's  event ; — 

"  Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 

"  Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke, 
"  His  captive,  though  with  dread  resigning, 

"  My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke ;  340 

"  On  promise  to  return  before 
"  The  day  when  Giaffir's  charge  was  o'er. 
"  'Tis  vain — my  tongue  can  not  impart 
"  My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart, 
"  When  first  this  liberated  eye 
"  Surveyed  Earth — Ocean — Sun  and  Sky ! 
"  As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 
"  And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew— 
"  One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
"  That  more  than  feeling — I  was  Free  !  350 

"  E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine— 
"  The  World — nay — Heaven  itself  was  mine  J 


TIIK  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


XIX. 

"  The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 

"  Conveyed  me  from  this  idle  shore ; 

"  I  longed  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 

*  Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem  : 

"  I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all,3* 

t€  But  when  and  where  I  joined  the  crew, 
"  With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall, 

"  When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
"  Is  done — 'twill  then  be  time  more  meet 
"  To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale's  complete. 

XX. 

"  Tis  true — they  are  a  lawless  brood, 

"  But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood ; 

u  And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 

"  With  them  hath  found — may  find  a  place  j 

"  But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand, 

"  Obedience  to  their  chief's  command ; 

"  A  soul  for  every  enterprize, 

"  That  never  sees  with  terror's  eyes; 

"  Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all, 

"  And  vengeance  vow'd  for  those  who  fall ; 

"  Have  made  them  fitting  instruments , 

"  For  more  than  even  my  own  intents. 


360 


370 


44  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  And  some — and  I  have  studied  all 

"  Distinguish'd  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
"  But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

"  The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank  : — 
"  And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire,    . 

"  The  last  of  Lambro's 3S  patriots  there  380 

"  Anticipated  freedom  share; 
"  And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 
"  On  visionary  schemes  debate, 
"  To  snatch  the  Rayahs36  from  their  fate.— 
"  So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
"  Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne'er  knew, 
"  I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 
"  Ay!  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch37  roam, 
"  Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home,  * 
"  My  tent  on  shore — my  galley  on  the  sea —  390 

"  Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me ; 
te  Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 
**  Across  the  desart,  or  before  the  gale, 
"  Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb  !  or  glide  my  prow, 
"  But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer — Thou ! 
"  Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark — • 
"  The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


45 


Or  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife — 

Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life ! 

The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away,  400 

And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray ! 

Blest — as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 

To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call; 

Soft — as  the  melody  of  youthful  days, 

That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise; 

Dear — as  his  native  song  to  Exile's  ears, 

Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 

For  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 

Blooming  as  Aden  *  in  its  earliest  hour. 

A  thousand  swords — with  Selim's  heart  and  hand —    410 

Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at  thy  command ! 

Girt  by  my  band — Zuleika  at  my  side — 

The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride: — 

The  Haram's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 

Are  well  resigned  for  cares — for  joys  like  these : 

Not  blind  to  fate — I  see  where'er  I  rove 

Unnumber'd  perils — but  one  only  love ! 

Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 

Though  fortune  frown,  or  falser  friends  betray. 

How  dear  the  dream !  in  darkest  hours  of  ill,  420 

Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faithful  still! 


16  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

"  Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown — 

"  To  thee,  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own! 

"  To  soothe  each  sorrow — share  in  each  delight — 

"  Blend  every  thought — do  all  but  disunite! 

"  Once  free — 'tis  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide — 

"  Friends  to  each  other,  foes  to  aught  beside : — 

"  Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assigned 

"  By  fatal  Nature  to  man's  warring  kind, 

"  Mark !  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease —     430 

"  He  makes  a  solitude — and  calls  it — peace ! 

"  I  like  the  rest  must  use  my  skill  or  strength, 

"  But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length; — 

"  Power  sways  but  by  division — her  resource 

"  The  blest  alternative  of  fraud  or  force ! 

"  Ours  be  the  last — in  time  deceit  may  come 

"  When  cities  cage  us  in  a  social  home : 

"  There  even  thy  soul  might  err — how  oft  the  heart 

et  Corruption  shakes — which  Peril  could  not  part! — 

"  And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  woe         440 

"  Or  even  Disgrace  would  lay  her  lover  low — 

"  Sunk  in  the  lap  of  Luxury  will  shame — 

"  Away  suspicion  \-^not  Zuleika's  name! 

"  But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best — and  here 

u  No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear— 


THEBRIDK  OF  ABVDOS. 


47 


\  rs,  h-ar !  the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee, 
•'  By  Oman's  power,  and  Giaflir's  stem  decree— r 
"  Tliat  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favouring  gale, 
•'  Which  Love  to  night  hath  promised  to  my  sail — 
4<  No  danger  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hath  blest,  450 

"  Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest; 

With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet — each  clime  hath  charm.- 
"  Earth — sea  alike — our  world  within  our  arms ! 
**  Ay— let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck— 
"  So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round  my  neck— * 
"  The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be 
"  No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee ! 
"  The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
"  To  Love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  Art 
"  There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check,  4(i(> 

"  Here  moments  menace — there  are  years  of  wreck ! 
"  But  hence  ye  thoughts !  that  rise  in  Horror's  shape — 
"  This  hour  bestows — or  ever  bars  escape — 
"  Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close — 
"  Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes  : — 
"  Yea — foes — to  me  will  GiaffiYs  hate  decline? 
"  And  is  not  Osman — who  would  part  us — thine  ? 


48  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

XXL 

"  His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 

"  Returned  in  time  my  guard  to  save ; 

"  Few  heard — none  told — that  o'er  the  wave          470 
"  From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  the  while ; 
"  And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band 
"  Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land ; 
"  No  deed  they've  done — nor  deed  shall  do, 
"  Ere  I  have  heard  and  doomed  it  too ; 
"  I  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 
"  Tis  fit  I  oftener  share  the  toil. 
fe  But  now  too  long  I've  held  thine  ear, 
"  Time  presses — floats  my  bark — and  here 
"  We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear.  480 

"  To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
"  Arrives — to-night  must  break  thy  chain ; 
"  And  would'st  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey 

"  Perchance — his  life  who  gave  thee  thine — 
"  With  me  this  hour  away — away — 

"  But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
"  Would'st  thou  recal  thy  willing  vow, 
"  Appalled  by  truths  imparted  now — 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

u  Here  rest  I — not  to  see  thee  wed, 
"  But  be  that  peril  on  my  head !" 


49 


490 


XXII. 

Zuleika — mute  and  motionless, 
Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress — 
When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone, 
The  mother  hardened  into  stone ; 
All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 
Was  but  a  younger  Niobe ! — 
But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 
Essayed  to  speak,  or  look  reply- 
Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 
Far  flashed  on  high  a  blazing  torch !  500 

Another — and  another — and  another — 
"  Oh !  fly — no  more — yet  now  my  more  than  brother !" 
Far — wide  through  every  thicket  spread 
The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red ; 
Nor  these  alone — for  each  right  hand 
Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand : — 
They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 
With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 


,50  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

And  last  of  all  his  sabre  waving, 

Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving,  510 

And  now  almost  they  t«  uch  the  cave — 

Oh !  must  that  grot  be  Seiirn's  grave  ? 

XXHL 

Dauntless  he  stood — "  'Tis  come — soon  past—* 
"  One  kiss,  Zuleika— 'tis  my  last ; 

"  But  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
"  May  hear  this  signal— see  the  Hash-— 
"  Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash— 

"  !No  matter — yet  one  effort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stept, 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high:  520 

Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumbed  her  breast  and  eye ! 
"  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
<(  Their  oars,  'tis  but  to  see  me  die ; 
"  That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
"  Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
"  Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  bess  equal  war ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


'  Farewell,  Zuleika !-— Sweet !  retire— 
"  Yet  stay  within — here  linger  safe, 
"At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. — 
Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance : 
Fear'st  thou  for  him  ? — may  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire! — 
No— -though  by  him  that  poison  poured — 
No — though  again  he  call  me  coward! — 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel  ? 
No— as  each  crest  save  his  may  feelj 


I 


XXIV. 

One  bound  he  made,  and  gained  the  sand — 

Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band — 

A  gasping  head,  a  quivering  trunk ; 
Another  falls — but  round  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes : 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave ; — 
His  boat  appears — not  five  oars'  length — 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength — 


530 


540 


52  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

Oh !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save  ? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave ;  550 

His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray; 
Wet — wild — unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle — now  they  touch  the  land ! 
They  come — 'tis  but  to  add  to  slaughter — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water ! 

XXV. 

Escaped  from  shot — unharmed  by  steel, 

Or  scarcely  grazed  it's  force  to  feel — 

Had  Selim  won — betrayed — beset — 

To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met —  560 

There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 

And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand — 

Ah  !  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause — that  fatal  gaze  he  took — 

Hath  doomed  his  death— or  fixed  his  chain — 
Sad  proof — in  peril  and  in  pain 
How  late  will  Lover's  hope  remain ! — 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray — 
Behind  but  close — his  comrades  lay —  570 


THE  BRIDE  OF  A  BY  DOS.  53 

When  at  the  instant,  hissed  the  ball, 

"  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall !" 

Whose  voice  is  heard  ?  whose  carbine  rang  f 

Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang  ? 

Too  nearly — deadly  aimed  to  err — 

Tis  thine — Abdallalf  s  Murderer ! 

The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 

The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate — 

Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling, 

The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling,  53() 

If  aught  his  lips  essayed  to  groan 

The  rushing  billows  choaked  the  tone  !— 

xxvr. 

Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away — 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there — 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent — but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear — 
And  fragments  of  each  shivered  brand — 
Steps  stamped — and  dashed  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand  590 

May  there  be  marked — nor  far  remote 
A  broken  torch — an  oarless  boat — 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 


54  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep — 
There  lies  a  white  Capote  ! 
'Tis  rent  in  twain — one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain — 

But  where  is  he  who  wore  ? 
Ye !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep 
Go — seek  them  where  the  surges  sweep.  60O 

Their  burthen  round  Sigaeum's  steep 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay — 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow — 
That  hand — whose  motion  is  not  life — 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife — 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levelled  with  the  wave —  6 1 0 

What  recks  it  ?  though  that  corse  shall  lie 

Within  a  living  grave? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robbed  the  meaner  worm  ! 
The  only  heart — the  only  eye — 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 


THK  BKIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


Had  seen  those  scattered  limbs  composed, 
And  mourned  above  his  turban-stone — 40 

That  heart  hath  burst — that  eye  was  closed- 
Yea — closed  before  his  own  ! 


620 


XXVII. 

By  Helle's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
And  woman's  eye  is  wet — man's  cheek  is  pale— 
Zuleika  !  last  of  Giaffir's  race, 

Thy  destin'd  lord  is  come  too  late — 
He  sees  not — ne'er  shall  see  thy  face  I — 

Can  he  not  hear 
The  loud  Wul-wulleh  41  warn  his  distant  ear  ? 

Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate, 
The  Koran-chaunters  of  the  hymn  of  fate — 

The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait, 
Sighs  in  the  hall — and  shrieks  upon  the  gale, 

Tell  him  thy  tale! 
Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall ! 

That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cave 

Thy  heart  grew  chill — 
He  was  thy  hope — thy  joy — thy  love — thine  all- 


630 


56  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


And  that  last  thought  on  him  thou  could'st  not  save 

Sufficed  to  kill — 
Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry — and  all  was  still — 

Peace  to  thy  broken  heart — and  virgin  grave  !       640 
Ah !  happy !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst, 
That  grief — though  deep — though  fatal — was  thy  first ! 
Thrice  happy !  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 
Of  absence — shame — pride — hate — revenge — remorse ! 
And,  oh!  that  pang  where  more  than  Madness  lies — 
The  Worm  that  will  not  sleep — and  never  dies — 
Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night, 
That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light — 
That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quiv'ring  heart — 
Ah!  wherefore  not  consume  it — and  depart!  65O 

Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief ! 

Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head— - 
Vainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  dost  spread : 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah — Selim  bled — 
Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief — 
Thy  pride  of  heart — thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed — 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


57 


She — whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed — 

Thy  Daughter's  dead! 

Hope  of  thine  age — thy  twilight's  lonely  beam — 
The  Star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's  stream —  660 

What  quench'd  its  ray? — the  blood  that  thou  hast  shed! 

Hark — to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair ! 

"  Where  is  my  child?" — an  Echo  answers — "  Where?"4* 

XXVIII. 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 

That  shine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms 

And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leaf 
Are  stamped  with  an  eternal  grief ; 

Like  early  unrequited  Love ! 
One  spot  exists — which  ever  blooms,  670 

Ev'n  in  that  deadly  grove. — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

It's  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale, 
It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair — 

So  white — so  faint — the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high ; 


58  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail, 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 

May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 
To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again !  680 

The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears. 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 

Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour 

And  buds  unsheltered  by  a  bower, 

Nor  droops — though  spring  refuse  her  shower 

Nor  woos  the  summer  beam. — 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseen — but  not  remote —  690 

Invisible  his  airy  wings, 
But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings 

His  long  entrancing  note! 
It  were  the  Bulbul — but  his  throat, 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a  strain ; 
For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain  ! 


THE  BRIDE  Otf  ABYDOS. 


59 


And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 

'Tis  sorrow  so  unmixed  with  dread,  700 

They  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 
That  melancholy  spell, 

And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake, 
He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 

But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high- 
Expires  that  magic  melody. 

And  some  have  been  who  could  believe, 

(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 
Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame,) 

That  note  so  piercing  and  profound  710 

Will  shape  and  syllable  its  sound 
Into  Zuleika's  name. 4J 

'Tis  from  her  cypress'  summit  heard, 

That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word — 

'Tis  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 

That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 

There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone, 

Eve  saw  it  placed — the  Morrow  gone  ! 

Jt  was  no  mortal  arm  tfcat  bore 

That  deep-fixed  pillar  to  the  shore ;  720 


30  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell, 
Next  morn  'twas  found  where  Selim  fell- 
Lashed  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 
Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave — 
And  there  by  night,  reclin'd,  'tis  said, 
Is  seen  a  ghastly  turban'd  head — 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
'Tis  named  the  "  Pirate-phantom's  pillow !" 
Where  first  it  lay — that  mourning  flower 
Hath  flourished — flourisheth  this  hour —  730 

Alone — and  dewy — coldly  pure  and  pale — »• 
As  weeping  Beauty's  cheek  at  Sorrow's  tale ! 


NOTES. 


Note  l,  page  1,  line  8. 

Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom. 
"  Gul,"  the  rose. 

Note  2,  page  2,  line  2. 

Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ? 
«*  Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  Sun, 
"  With  whom  Revenge  is  Virtue." 

YOUNG'S  REVENGE. 


Note  3,  page  4,  line  16. 
With  MeJHOun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song. 
Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  East. 
the  moral  poet  of  Persia. 


Sadi, 


Note  4,  page  4-,  line  17. 
Till  /,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour. 

Tambour,  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise,  noon,  and 
twilight. 

Note  5,  page  8,  line  3. 
He  is  an  Arab  to  my  sight. 

The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compliment  a 
hundred  fold)  even  more  than  they  hate  the  Christians. 


6'2  NOTES. 

Note  6,  page  9,  line  18. 
The  mind — the  Music  breathing  from  her  face. 

This  expression  has  met  with  objections.  I  will  not  refer  to 
"  Him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul,"  but  merely  request  the 
reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,  the  features  of  the  woman 
whom  he  believes  to  be  the  most  beautiful ;  and  if  he  then  does 
not  comprehend  fully  what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the  above  line, 
I  shall  be  sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  eloquent  passage  in  the 
latest  work  of  the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perhaps,  of  any  age, 
on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  comparison  excited  by  that 
analogy)  between  "  painting  and  music,"  see  vol.  iii.  cap.  10.  DE 
L'ALLEMAGNE.  And  is  not  this  connexion  still  stronger  with 
the  original  than  the  copy  ?  With  the  colouring  of  Nature  than  of 
Art  ?  After  all,  this  is  rather  to  be  felt  than  described ;  still  I 
think  there  are  some  who  will  understand  it,  at  least  they  would 
have  done  had  they  beheld  the  countenance  whose  speaking  har- 
mony suggested  the  idea ;  for  this  passage  is  not  drawn  from 
imagination  but  memory,  that  mirror  which  Affliction  dashes  to  the 
earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  fragments,  only  beholds  the  re- 
flection multiplied ! 


Note  /,  page  10,  line  20. 
Eat  yet  the  line  of  Carasman. 


Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  the  principal  land- 
holder in  Turkey,  he  governs  Magnesia ;  those,  who  by  a  kind 
of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  condition  of  service,  are  called 
Timariots:  they  serve  as  Spahis,  according  to  the  extent  of  terri- 
tory, and  bring  a  certain  number  into  the  field,  generally  cavalry. 


NOTES. 


63 


Note  8,  page  11,  line  U. 
And  teach  the  messenger  what  fate. 

When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  single  messen- 
ger, who  is  always  the  first  bearer  of  the  order  for  his  death,  is 
strangled  instead,  and  sometimes  five  or  six,  one  after  the  other, 
on  the  same  errand,  by  command  of  the  refractory  patient ;  if,  on 
tlv  contrary,  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he  bows,  kisses  the  Sultan's  re- 
spectable signature,  and  is  bowstrung  with  great  complacency. 
In  1810,  several  of  these  presents  were  exhibited  in  the  niche  of 
the  Seraglio  gate ;  among  others,  the  head  of  the  Pacha  of  Bag- 
dat,  a  brave  young  man,  cut  oft'  by  treachery,  after  a  desperate 
resistance. 

Note  9,  page  12,  line  10. 
Thrice  clapped  his  hands,  and  called  his  steed. 

Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.  The  Turks  hate  a 
superfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have  no  bells. 

Note  10,  page  12,  line  11. 
Resigned  his  gem-adorned  Chibouque. 

Chibouque,  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber  mouth-piece, 
and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the  leaf,  is  adorned  with 
precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of  the  wealthier  orders. 

Note  11,  page  12,  line  13. 
With  Maugrabee — and  Mamaluke. 
Maugrabee,  Moorish  mercenaries. 


64  NOTES. 

Note  12,  page  12,  line  14. 
His  way  amid  his  Delis  took. 

Deli,  bravos  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  cavalry,  and 
al ways  begin  the  action. 

Note  13,  page  13,  line  6. 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt. 

A  twisted  fold  ofjelt  is  used  for  scimitar  practice  by  the  Turks, 
and  few  but  Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through  it  at  a  single  stroke: 
sometimes  a  tough  turban  is  used  for  the  same  purpose.  The 
jerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt  javelins,  animated  and  graceful. 

Note  14,  page  13,  line  9. 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  zvild  and  loud. 
"  Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "  Leilies,"  as  the  Spanish  poets 
call  them,  the  sound  is  Ollah  ;  a  cry  of  which  the  Turks,  for  a  si- 
lent people,  are  somewhat  profuse,  particularly  during  the  jerreed, 
or  in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.     Their  animation  in  the 
field,  and  gravity  in  the  chamber,  with  their  pipes  and  comboloios, 
form  an  amusing  contrast. 

Note  15,  page  14,  line  8. 
The  Persian  Jttar-guCs  perfume. 
"  Atar-gul,"  ottar  of  roses.    The  Persian  is  the  finest. 

Note  16,  page  14,  line  10. 
The  pictured  roof  and  marble  floor. 

The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the  Mussulman 
apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  great  houses,  with  one  eter- 


NOTES. 


O.v 


nal  and  highly  coloured  view  of  Constantinople,  wherein  the 
principal  feature  is  a  noble  contempt  of  perspective ;  below, 
arms,  scimitars,  &c.  are  in  general  fancifully  and  not  inelegantly 
disposed. 

Note  17,  page  15,  line  4. 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul  bears. 

It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  this  "  Lover 
of  the  rose"  are  sad  or  merry ;  and  Mr.  Fox's  remarks  on  the  sub- 
ject have  provoked  some  learned  controversy  as  to  the  opinions 
of  the  ancients  on  the  subject.  I  dare  not  venture  a  conjecture 
on  the  point,  though  a  little  inclined  to  the  "  errare  mallem,"  &c. 
if  Mr.  Fox  toas  mistaken. 

Note  18,  page  1 6,  line  19. 
Even  Azraelfrom  his  deadly  quiver. 
«*  Azrael" — the  angel  of  death. 

Note  19,  page  18,  line  12. 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar. 

The  treasures  of  the  Preadamite  Sultans.  See  D'HERBELOT, 
article  Istakar. 

Note  20,  page  19,  line  6. 
Holds  not  a  Musselim's  control. 

Musselim,  a  governor,  the  next?in  rank  after  a  Pacha;  a 
Waywode  is  the  third  ;  and  then  come  the  Agas. 


66  NOTES. 

Note  21,  page  19,  line  7. 
Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo. 

Egripo — the  Negropont.  According  to  the  proverb,  the  Turks 
of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Greeks  of  Athens,  are 
the  worst  of  their  respective  races. 

Note  22,  page  22,  line  1?. 
Ah  !  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar. 

"  Tchocadar" — one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes  a  man  of 
authority, 

Note  23,  page  27,  line  4. 
Thine  own  "  broad  Hellespont"  still  dashes. 

The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  "  the  broad  Hellespont"  or 
the  "  boundless  Hellespont,"  whether  it  means  one  or  the  other, 
or  what  it  means  at  all,  has  been  beyond  all  possibility  of  detail. 
I  have  even  heard  it  disputed  on  the  spot ;  and  not  foreseeing 
a  speedy  conclusion  to  the  controversy,  amused  myself  with 
swimming  across  it  in  the  mean  time,  and  probably  may  again, 
before  the  point  is  settled.  Indeed,  the  question  as  to  the  truth 
of  "  the  tale  of  Troy  divine"  still  continues,  much  of  it  resting 
upon  the  talismanic  word  "  arteif>o$:"  probably  Homer  had 
the  same  notion  of  distance  that  a  coquette  has  of  time,  and 
when  he  talks  of  boundless,  means  half  a  mile ;  as  the  latter,  by 
a  like  figure,  when  she  says  eternal  attachment,  simply  specifies 
three  weeks. 


NOTES.  67 

Note  24,  page  27,  line  15. 
Which  Amman's  son  ran  proudly  round. 
Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar  with  laurel, 
&c.     He  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Caracalla  in  his  race.     It  is 
believed  that  the  last  also  poisoned  a  friend,  named  Festus,  for 
the  sake  of  new  Patroclan  games.    I  have  seen  the  sheep  feeding 
on  the  tombs  of  ^Esietes  and  Antilochus ;  the  first  is  in  the  centre 
wf  the  plain. 

Note  25,  page  28,  line  14. 
O'er  K'/iich  her  fairy  fingers  ran. 

When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume,  which  is 
slight  but  not  disagreeable. 

Note  26,  page  28,  line  17. 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet* 

The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  enclosed  in  gold 
boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn  round  the  neck, 
wrist,  or  arm,  is  still  universal  in  the  East.  The  Koorsee  (throne) 
verse  in  the  second  cap.  of  the  Koran  describes  the  attributes 
of  the  Most  High,  and  is  engraved  in  this  manner,  and  worn  by 
the  pious,  as  the  most  esteemed  and  sublime  of  all  sentences. 

Note  27,  page  29,  line  1 . 
And  by  her  Comboloio  lies. 
"  Comboloio" — a  Turkish  rosary.     The    MSS.    particularly 


68  NOTES. 

those  of  the  Persians,  are  richly  adorned  and  illuminated.  The 
Greek  females  are  kept  in  utter  ignorance ;  but  many  of  the 
Turkish  girls  are  highly  accomplished,  though  not  actually  qua- 
lified for  a  Christian  coterie  ;  perhaps  some  of  our  own  "  blues" 
might  not  be  the  worse  for  bleaching. 

Note  28,  page  32,  line  20. 
In  him  was  some  young  Galiongee. 

"  Galiongee"— or  Galiongi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  Turkish  sailor^; 
the  Greeks  navigate,  the  Turks  work  the  guns.  Their  dress  is 
picturesque ;  and  I  have  seen  the  Capitan  Pacha  more  than  once 
wearing  it  as  a  kind  of  incog.  Their  legs,  however,  are  generally 
naked.  The  buskins  described  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind 
with  silver,  are  those  of  an  Arnaut  robber,  who  was  my  host  (he 
had  quitted  the  profession ) ,  at  his  Pyrgo,  near  Gastouni  in  the 
Morea;  they  were  plated  in  scales  one  over  the  other,  like  the 
back  of  an  armadillo. 

Note  29,  page  35,  line  1. 
So  may  the  Koran  verse  displayed. 

The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  sometimes  the 
name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but  more  generally  a 
text  from  theKoran,  in  letters  of  gold.  Amongst  those  in  my  pos- 
session is  one  with  a  blade  of  singular  construction ;  it  is  very 
broad,  and  the  edge  notched  into  serpentine  curves  like  the  ripple 
of  water,  or  the  wavering  of  flame.  I  asked  the  Armenian  who 
sold  it,  what  possible  use  such  a  figure  could  add:  he  said,  in 
Italian,  that  he  did  not  know ;  but  the  Mussulmans  had  an  idea 


N<  )'!}•>  n<J 

that  those  of  this  form  gave  a  severer  wound;  and  liked  it  be- 
cause it  was  "  piu  feroce."  I  did  not  much  admire  the  reason, 
but  bought  it  for  its  peculiarity. 

Note  30,  page  35,  line  \6. 
But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing  or  per- 
sonage in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark,  or  Cain,  is  equally 
the  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew;  indeed  the  former  profess 
to  be  much  better  acquainted  with  the  lives,  true  and  fabulous, 
of  the  patriarchs,  than  is  warranted  by  our  own  Sacred  writ, 
and  not  content  with  Adam,  they  have  a  biography  of  Pre- 
Adamites.  Solomon  is  the  monarch  of  all  necromancy,  and 
Moses  a  prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and  Mahomet.  Zuleika 
is  the  Persian  name  of  Potiphar's  wife,  and  her  amour  with 
Joseph  constitutes  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  their  language.  It 
is  therefore  no  violation  of  costume  to  put  the  names  of  Cain, 
or  Noah,  into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. 

Note  31,  page  36,  line  10. 
And  Paszcan's  rebel  hordes  attest. 

Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin,  who  for  the  last  year*  of 
his  life  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at  defiance. 

Note  32,  page  37,  line  3. 
They  gave  their  horsetails  to  the  rev 
Horsetail,  the  standard  of  u  Pacha. 


70  NOTES. 

Note  33,  page  37,  line  16. 
He  drank  one  draught— nor  needed  more! 

Giaffir,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I  am  not  sure 
which,  was  actually  taken  off  by  the  Albanian  Ali,  in  the  manner 
described  in  the  text.  Ali  Pacha,  while  I  was  in  the  country, 
married  the  daughter  of  his  victim,  some  years  after  the  event 
had  taken  place  at  a  bath  in  Sophia,  or  Adrianople.  The  poison 
was  mixed  in  the  cup  of  coffee,  which  is  presented  before  the 
sherbet  by  the  bath-keeper,  after  dressing. 

Note  34,  page  43,  line  5. 
/  sought  by  turns,  and  sazv  them  all. 

The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined  to  the 
Archipelago,  the  sea  alluded  to. 

Note  35,  page  44,  line  6. 
The  last  of  Lambro's  patriots  there. 

Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  in  1789 — 90 
for  the  independence  of  his  country;  abandoned  by  the  Russians 
he  became  a  pirate,  and  the  Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his  en- 
terprizes.  He  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at  Petersburg.  He  and  Riga 
are  the  two  most  celebrated  of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 

Note  3(3,  page  44,  line  10. 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs  from  their  fate. 

"  Rayahs,"  all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  the  "  Ha- 
ratch." 


NOTKS. 


71 


Note  37,  page  44,  line  14. 
Ay  I  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch  roam. 

This  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the  Mussul* 
mans  profess  much  acquaintance. 

Note  38,  page  44,  line  15. 
Or  only  knozc  on  land  the  Tartar's  home. 

The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turkomans, 
will  be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book  of  Eastern  travels.  That 
it  possesses  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself  cannot  be  denied.  A  young 
French  renegado  confessed  to  Chateaubriand,  that  he  never 
found  himself  alone,  galloping  in  the  desart,  without  a  sensation 
approaching  to  rupture,  which  was  indescribable. 

Note  39,  page  45,  line  12. 
Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  hour. 
"  Jannat  al  Aden/' the  perpetual  abode,  the  Mussulman  Para- 
dise. 

Note  40,  page  55,  line  2. 
And  mourned  above  his  turban-stone. 
A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  men  only. 

Note  41,  page  55,  line  11. 
The  loud  Wul-wulleh  warn  his  distant  ear. 
The  death-song  of  the  Turkish  women.     The  "  silent  *>lav  t  >" 
i  re  the  men  whose  notions  of  decorum  forbid  complaint  in  public. 


12  NOTES. 

0 

Note  42,  page  57,  line  7. 
"  Where  is  my  child?'— an  Echo  answers— "  Where'!" 

"  I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth  and  cried,  *  The  friends  of 
w  my  youth,  where  are  they?'  and  an  Echo  answered,  '  Where 
w  are  they  ?'  "  From  an  Arabic  MS. 

The  above  quotation  (from  which  the  idea  in  the  text  is  taken) 
must  be  already  familiar  to  every  reader — it  is  given  in  the  first 
annotation,  page  67,  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory;"  a  poem 
so  well  known  as  to  render  a  reference  almost  superfluous ;  but 
to  whose  pages  all  will  be  delighted  to  recur. 

Note  43,  page  59,  line  12. 

Into  Zuleikajs  name. 
"  And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names." 

MILTON. 

For  a  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the  form  of  birds, 
we  need  not  travel  to  the  East.  Lord  Lyttleton's  ghost  story, 
the  belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that  George  II.  flew  into 
her  window  in  the  shape  of  a  raven  (see  Orford's  Reminiscences), 
and  many  other  instances,  bring  this  superstition  nearer  home. 
The  most  singular  was  the  whim  of  a  Worcester  lady,  who  be- 
lieving her  daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape  of  a  singing  bird,  li- 
terally furnished  her  pew  in  the  Cathedral  with  cages-fall  of  the 
kind ;  and  as  she  was  rich,  and  a  benefactress  in  beautifying  the 
church,  no  objection  was  made  to  her  harmless  folly.— For  this 
anecdote,  see  Orford's  Letters. 

THE    END. 


T.  DAVISON,  Lombard-street, 
Whitefriars,  London. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


THE  CORSAIR, 


A  TALE. 


BY  LORD   BYRON. 


I  suoi  pensieri  in  lui  dormir  non  ponno." 

TASUO,  Canto  decimo,  Gerusaleinme  Libcruta.    ' 


FIFTH   EDITION. 


LONDON: 

PRINTED  FOR  JOHN  MURRAY,  ALBEMARLE-STREET; 
By  Thomas  Davison,  Whitefriart. 

1814. 


TO 

THOMAS  MOORE,  ESQ. 

MY  DEAR  MOORE, 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  the  last  production 
with  which  I  shall  trespass  on  public  patience, 
and  your  indulgence,  for  some  years ;  and  I 
own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avail  myself  of  this 
latest  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning  my 
pages  with  a  name,  consecrated  by  unshaken 
public  principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and 
various  talents.  While  Ireland  ranks  you 
among  the  firmest  of  her  patriots — while  you 
stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards  in  her  esti- 
mation, and  Britain  repeats  and  ratifies  the 


VI  DEDICATION. 

decree — permit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since 
our  first  acquaintance,  has  been  the  years  he 
had  lost  before  it  commenced,  to  add  the 
humble,  but  sincere  suffrage  of  friendship,  to 
the  voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  It  will  at 
least  prove  to  you,  that  I  have  neither  for- 
gotten the  gratification  derived  from  your  so- 
ciety, nor  abandoned  the  prospect  of  its 
renewal,  whenever  your  leisure  or  inclination 
allows  you  to  atone  to  your  friends  for  too 
long  an  absence.  It  is  said  among  those 
friends,  I  trust  truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in 
the  composition  of  a  poem  whose  scene  will 
be  laid  in  the  East ;  none  can  do  those  scenes 
so  much  justice.  The  wrongs  of  your  own 
country,  the  magnificent  and  fiery  spirit  of 
her  sons,  the  beauty  and  feeling  of  her  daugh- 
ters, may  there  be  found ;  and  Collins,  when 


DEDICATION.  Vll 

he  denominated  his  Oriental,  his  Irish 
Eclogues,  was  not  aware  how  true,  at  least, 
was  a  part  of  his  parallel.  Your  imagination 
will  create  a  warmer  sun,  and  less  clouded  sky; 
but  wildness,  tenderness,  and  originality  are 
part  of  your  national  claim  of  oriental  descent, 
to  which  you  have  already  thus  far  proved 
your  title  more  clearly  than  the  most  zealous  of 
your  country's  antiquarians.  May  I  add  a 
few  words  on  a  subject  on  which  all  men  are 
supposed  to  be  fluent,  and  none  agreeable  ? — 
Self.  I  have  written  much,  and  published 
more  than  enough  to  demand  a  longer  silence 
than  I  now  meditate ;  but  for  some  years  to 
come  it  is  my  intention  to  tempt  no  further 
the  award  of  "  Gods,  men,  nor  columns/' 
In  the  present  composition  I  have  attempted 
not  the  most  difficult,  but,  perhaps,  the  best 


Vlll  DEDICATION. 

adapted  measure  to  our  language,  the  good 
old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet : — the 
stanza  of  Spenser  is  perhaps  too  slow  and 
dignified  for  narrative ;  though,  I  confess,  it 
is  the  measure  most  after  my  own  heart ;  and 
Scott  alone,  of  the  present  generation,  has 
hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fatal 
facility  of  the  octo-syllabic  verse ;  and  this 
is  not  the  least  victory  of  his  fertile  and 
mighty  genius.  In  blank  verse,  Milton, 
Thomson,  and  our  dramatists,  are  the  bea- 
cons that  shine  along  the  deep,  but  warn 
us  from  the  rough  and  barren  rock  on  which 
they  are  kindled.  The  heroic  couplet  is 
not  the  most  popular  measure  certainly ;  but 
as  I  did  not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a 
wish  to  flatter  what  is  called  public  opinion, 
I  shall  quit  it  without  further  apology,  and 


DEDICATION.  IX 

take  my  chance  once  more  with  that  versifi- 
cation, in  which  I  have  hitherto  published 
nothing  but  compositions  whose  former  circu- 
lation is  part  of  my  present  and  will  be  of  my 
future  regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  ge- 
neral, I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  ren- 
dered my  personages  more  perfect  and  amia- 
ble, if  possible,  inasmuch  as   I   have  been 
sometimes  criticised,  and  considered  no  less 
responsible  for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than 
if  all  had  been  personal.     Be  it  so — if  I  have 
deviated  into  the  gloomy  vanity  of  "  drawing 
from  self/'  the  pictures  are  probably  like, 
since  they  are  unfavourable;  and  if  not,  those 
who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who 
do  not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving. 


X  DEDICATION. 

I  have  no  particular  desire  that  any  but 
my  acquaintance  should  think  the  author 
better  than  the  beings  of  his  imagining;  but 
I  cannot  help  a  little  surprise,  and  perhaps 
amusement,  at  some  odd  critical  exceptions  in 
the  present  instance,  when  I  see  several  bards 
(far  more  deserving,  I  allow)  in  very  reputable 
plight,  and  quite  exempted  from  all  participa- 
tion in  the  faults  of  those  heroes,  who,  never- 
theless, might  be  found  with  little  more  mora- 
lity than  "  The  Giaour/'  and  perhaps — but 
no — I  must  admit  Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very 
repulsive  personage ;  and  as  to  his  identity, 
those  who  like  it  must  give  him  whatever 
"  alias"  they  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove 
the  impression,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to 


DEDICATION. 


XI 


me,  that  the  man  who  is  alike  the  delight  of  his 
readers  and  his  friends — the  poet  of  all  cir- 
cles— and  the  idol  of  his  own,  permits  me 
here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe  myself, 

most  truly, 

and  affectionately, 
his  obedient  servant, 
BYRON. 

January  2,  1814. 


THE  CORSAIR, 


A  TALE. 


CANTO  I. 


nessun  maggior  dolort, 


"  Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
"  Nella  miseria, 


DANTE. 


L 

"  O'ER  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
"  Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 
"  Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
"  Survey  our  empire  and  behold  our  home  ! 
"  These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway — 
"  Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
"  Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
"  From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
"  Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 
"  Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave; 


10 


2  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  N  ot  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease ! 

"  Whom  slumber  soothes  not — pleasure  cannot  please — 

"  Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 

"  And  danc'd  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 

"  The  exulting  sense — the  pulse's  maddening  play, 

"  That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 

"  That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 

"  And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 

"  That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 

"  And  where  the  feebler  faint — can  only  feel —  20 

"  Feel — to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 

"  Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 

"  No  dread  of  death — if  with  us  die  our  foes — 

"  Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose : 

"  Come  when  it  will — we  snatch  the  life  of  life — 

"  When  lost — what  recks  it — by  disease  or  strife  ? 

"  Let  him  who  crawls  enamoured  of  decay, 

"  Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away ; 

"  Heave  his  thick  breath ;  and  shake  his  palsied  head ; 

"  Ours — the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed.  SO 

u  While  gasp  by  gasp  he  faulters  forth  his  soul, 

"  Ours  with  one  pang — one  bound — escapes  controul. 


THE  CORSAIR.  3 

"  His  corse  may  boast  it's  urn  and  narrow  cave, 

"  And  they  who  loath'd  his  life  may  gild  his  grave : 

"  Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 

"  When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 

"  For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 

"  In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory ; 

"  And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 

"  When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey,  40 

"  And  cry,  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 

"  How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now  /" 

II. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle, 
Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while ; 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrilFd  the  rocks  along, 
And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song ! 
In  scattered  groupes  upon  the  golden  sand, 
They  game — carouse — converse — or  whet  the  brand ; 
Select  the  arms — to  each  his  blade  assign, 
And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine :  50 

Repair  the  boat — replace  the  helm  or  oar, 
While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore ; 

B  2 


4  THE  CORSAIR. 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net : 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprize — 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil, 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spoil : 

No  matter  where — their  chiefs  allotment  this — 

Theirs — to  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss.  60 

But  who  that  CHIEF  ?  his  name  on  every  shore 

Is  famed  and  fear'd — they  ask  and  know  no  more. 

With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command — 

Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand. 

Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess, 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 

Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still — 

And  for  his  fare — the  rudest  of  his  crew 

Would  that,  in  turn,  have  pass'd  untasted  too  ;  70 

Earth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  homeliest  roots, 

And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits, 

His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 

With  all  a  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 


I 


THE  CORSAIR.  5 

But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 

His  mind  seems  nourished  by  that  abstinence. 

"  Steer  to  that  shore!" — they  sail.  "  Do  this !" — 'tis  done : 

"  Now  form  and  follow  me !" — the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 

And  all  obey  and  few  enquire  his  will ;  80 

To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 

Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

III. 

"  A  sail ! — a  sail !" — a  promised  prize  to  Hope! 

Her  nation — flag — how  speaks  the  telescope  ? 

No  prize,  alas ! — but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Yes— she  is  our's — a  home  returning  bark — 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze !— she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  cape — our  bay 

Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray ;     QO 

How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes ! 

Her  white  wings  flying — never  from  her  foes. 

She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife — 


o  THE  CORSAIR. 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire — the  wreck — 
To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck  ? 

IV. 

Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings ; 

The  sails  are  furl'd ;  and  anchoring  round  she  swings  : 

And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 

Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stern.  100 

'Tis  mann'd — the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand, 

Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  the  welcome  shout ! — the  friendly  speech  ! 

When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach ; 

The  smile,  the. question,  and  the  quick  reply, 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity ! 

* 

V. 

The  tidings  spread — and  gathering  grows  the  crowd : 

The  hum  of  voices — and  the  laughter  loud, 

And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard —  109 

Friends' — husbands' — lovers'  names  in  each  dear  word. 

"  Oh!  are  they  safe  ?  we  ask  not  of  success — 

"  But  shall  we  see  them?  will  their  accents  bless  ? 


THE  CORSAIR. 

"  From  where  the  battle  roars — the  billows  chafe 
"  They  doubtless  boldly  did — but  who  are  safe  ? 
"  Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprize, 
"  And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes!" 


VI. 

"  Where  is  our  chief  ?  for  him  we  bear  report — 
"  And  doubt  that  joy — which  hails  our  coming — short, 
"  Yet  thus  sincere — 'tis  cheering,  though  so  brief ; 
"  But,  Juan  !  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief:  120 

a  Our  greeting  paid,  we'll  feast  on  our  return, 
"  And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn." 
Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 
To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 
By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 
And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring, 
Whose  scattered  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 
Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 
From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount — Near  yonder  cave, 
What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ?  1 30 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 
Not  oft  a  resting-staff  to  that  red  hand  ! 


3  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  'Tis  he— 'tis  Conrad — here — as  wont — alone, 

«  On — Juan !  on — and  make  our  purpose  known. 

"  The  bark  he  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 

"  His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 

"  We  dare  not  yet  approach — thou  know'st  his  mood, 

"  When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

VII. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent — 

He  spake  not — but  a  sign  express'd  assent.  140 

These  Juan  calls — they  come — to  their  salute 

He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 

"  These  letters,  chief,  are  from  the  Greek — the  spy — 

"  Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh ; 

"  Whatever  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report, 

"  Much  that" — "  Peace,  peace !" — he  cuts  their  prating  short. 

Wondering  they  turn — abashed — while  each  to  each 

Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech : 

They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing  look, 

To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took  ;  1 50 

But — this  as  if  he  guess' d — with  head  aside — 

Perchance  from  some  emotion — doubt,  or  pride — 


Tllii  CORSAIR. 

ilr  read  the  scroll — "  My  tablets,  Juan,  hark — 
"  Where  is  Gonsalvo?" 

"  In  the  anchored  bark." 
"  There  let  him  stay — to  him  this  order  bear. 
"  Back  to  your  duty — for  my  course  prepare  : 
"  Myself  this  enterprize  to-night  will  share." 


"  To-night,  Lord  Conrad  ?" 

"Ay!  at  set  of  sun:  160 

"  The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
"  My  corslet — cloak — one  hour — and  we  are  gone. 
"  Sling  on  thy  bugle — see  that  free  from  rust, 
"  My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ; 
"  Be  the  edge  sharpen'd  of  my  boarding-brand, 
"  And  give  it's  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
"  This  let  the  Armourer  with  speed  dispose ; 
"  Last  time — it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes : 
"  Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired, 
"  To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay's  expired."  170 


10  THE  CORSAIR. 

VIII. 

They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste, 

Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste : 

Yet  they  repine  not — so  that  Conrad  guides, 

And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides? 

That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 

Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh — 

Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 

And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue  ; 

Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 

That  dazzles — leads — yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart.  1 80 

What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 

Confess  and  envy — yet  oppose  in  vain  ? 

What  should  it  be  ?  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind  ? 

The  power  of  Thought — the  magic  of  the  Mind  ! 

Linked  with  success — assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 

That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  it's  will — 

Wields  with  their  hands — but  still  to  these  unknown, 

Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  own. 

Such  hath  it  been — shall  be — beneath  the  sun 

The  many  still  must  labour  for  the  one;  1 90 

'Tis  Nature's  doom — but  let  the  wretch  who  toils, 

Accuse  not — hate  not — him  who  wears  the  spoils. 


I 


TIIK  fORSAltt. 


( )h  !  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  pains  ! 


11 


IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race, 

Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  face, 

In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 

Though  his  dark  eye-brow  shades  a  glance  of  fire : 

Robust  but  not  Herculean — to  the  sight 

No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ;  200 

Yet  in  the  whole — who  paused  to  look  again, 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men — 

They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 

That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  cannot  guess. 

Sun-burnt  his  cheek — his  forehead  high  and  pale,-— 

The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil ; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 

Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien, 

Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen :     210 

His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue, 

At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view, 


12  THE  CORSAIR. 

As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 

Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined  ; 

Such  might  it  be — that  none  could  truly  tell — 

Too  close  enquiry  his  stern  glance  could  quell. 

There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  could  defy 

The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye ; — 

He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning's  gaze  would  seek 

To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek,        220 

At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy, 

And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny, 

Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 

Some  secret  thought — than  drag  that  chief's  to  day. 

There  was  a  laughing  Devil  in  his  sneer, 

That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear ; 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

Hope  withering  fled — and  Mercy  sighed  farewell ! 

X. 

Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 
Within — within — 'twas  there  the  spirit  wrought!          230 
Love  shows  all  changes — Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile ; 


THE  CORSAIR.  IS 

The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  governed  aspect,  speak  alone 
Of  deeper  passions;  and  to  judge  their  mien, 
He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen. 
Then — with  the  hurried  step,  the  upward  eye, 
The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 
That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear:  240 

Then — with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart, 
.  With  feelings  loosed  to  strengthen — not  depart — 
That  rise — convulse — subside — that  freeze,  or  glow, 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow, 
Then — Stranger !  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul — the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
Mark — how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years ! 
Behold — but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see, 
Man  as  himself — the  secret  spirit  free  ?  250 

XL 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  Nature  sent 

To  lead  the  guilty — guilt's  worst  instrument — 


14?  THE  CORSAIH 

His  soul  was  changed — before  his  deeds  had  driven 

Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 

Warp'd  by  the  world  in  Disappointment's  school, 

In  words  too  wise — in  conduct  there  a  fool — 

Too  firm  to  yield — and  far  too  proud  to  stoop — 

DoomM  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe, 

He  curs'd  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 

And  not  the  traitors  who  betrayed  him  still;  260 

Nor  deem'd  that  gifts  bestowed  on  better  men 

Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere  youth  had  lost  her  force, 

He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse — 

t 

And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call, 

To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 

He  knew  himself  a  villain — but  he  deem'd 

The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seem'd ; 

And  scorn'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 

Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did.  270 

He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 

The  hearts  that  loath'd  him  crouch'd  and  dreaded  too. 

Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 

From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 


THE  CORSAIR.  1.3 

His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprize  ; 
But  they  that  fear'd  him  dared  not  to  despise : 
Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake. 

XII. 

None  are  all  evil — clinging  round  his  heart, 

One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ;  280 

Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguil'd 

By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child — 

Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove, 

And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  Love ! 

Yes,  it  was  love — unchangeable — unchanged — 

Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged ; 

Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye, 

He  shunn'd,  nor  sought,  but  coldly  pass'd  them  by ; 

Though  many  a  beauty  droop'd  in  prison'd  bower, 

None  ever  sooth'd  his  most  unguarded  hour.  290 

Yes — it  was  Love — if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 

Tried  in  temptation,  strengthen'd  by  distress, 

Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime, 

And  yet — Oh  more  than  all ! — untired  by  time — 


16  THE  CORSAIR. 

1    Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile, 
Could  render  sullen  were  she  ne'er  to  smile, 
Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 
On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent — 
Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part, 
Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart ;        300 
Which  nought  remov'd — nor  menaced  to  remove — 
I  If  there  be  love  in  mortals — this  was  love ! 
He  was  a  villain — aye — reproaches  shower 
On  him — but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 
Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone, 
Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one ! 

XIII. 

He  paused  a  moment — till  his  hastening  men 

Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 

"  Strange  tidings ! — many  a  peril  have  I  past, 

"  Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last!  310 

"  Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 

"  Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  here. 

"  'Tis  rash  to  meet — but  surer  death  to  wait — 

"  Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate, 


THE  C011SAIU.  17 

"  And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  Fortune  smile, 

"  \\  t-'ll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral-pile. 

"  Ay — let  them  slumber — peaceful  be  their  dreams  1 

"  Morn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams 

"  As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze!) 

*'  To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas.  320 

"  Now  to  Medora — Oh!  my  sinking  heart, 

"  Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 

"  Yet  was  I  brave — mean  boast !  where  all  are  brave — 

"  Ev'n  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  to  save — 

"  This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we  share, 

"  That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair, 

"  Small  merit  claims — but  'twas  my  nobler  hope 

"  To  teach  my  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope ; 

"  Long  have  I  led  them — not  to  vainly  bleed  : 

"  No  medium  now — we  perish  or  succeed !  330 

"  So  let  it  be — it  irks  not  me  to  die ; 

"  But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly — 

"  My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 

"  But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snare : 

"  Is  this  my  skill  ?  my  craft?  to  set  at  last 

"  Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast  ? 


18  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Oh,  Fate! — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate — 
"  She  may  redeem  thee  still — nor  yet  too  late." 

XIV. 

Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he — till 

He  reached  the  summit  of  his  tower-crown'd  hill :         340 

There  at  the  portal  paus'd — for  wild  and  soft 

He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft ; 

Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  rung, 

And  these  the  notes  his  bird  of  beauty  sung : 

1. 
"  Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 

Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore, 
Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells, 

Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 

2. 
"  There  in  its  centre— a  sepulchral  lamp 

Burns  the  slow  flame  eternal — but  unseen ;  350 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp, 

Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


19 


3. 
"  Remember  me — Oh!  pass  not  thou  my  grave 

Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recline 
The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave, 

Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  in  thine. 


4. 
"  My  fondest — faintest — latest — accents  hear : 

Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove ; 
Then  give  me  all  I  ever  asked — a  tear, 

The  first — last — sole  reward  of  so  much  love!" 


3GO 


He  pass'd  the  portal — cross'd  the  corridore, 
And  reach' d  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o'er : 
"  My  own  Medora — sure  thy  song  is  sad—" 

"  In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad  ? 

"  Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 

"  Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray : 

"  Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit, 

"  My  heart  unhush'd — although  my  lips  were  mute ! 

"  Oh !  many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclin'd,          369 

"  My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wing'd  the  wind, 


20  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  And  deern'd  the  breath  that  faintly  fann'd  thy  sail — 

"  The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale ; 

"  Though  soft — it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 

"  That  mourn'd  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge  : 

"  Still  would  I  rise — to  rouse  the  beacon  fire, 

"  Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire ; 

"  And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatch'd  each  star, 

"  And  morning  came — and  still  thou  wert  afar. 

"  Oh!  how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 

"  And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view,  380 

"  And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed — and  not  a  prow 

"  Was  granted  to  my  tears — my  truth — my  vow  ! 

"  At  length — 'twas  noon — I  hail'd  and  blest  the  mast 

"  That  met  my  sight — it  near'd — Alas !  it  past ! 

*  Another  came — Oh  God!  'twas  thine  at  last! 

"  Would  that  those  days  were  over !  wilt  thou  ne'er, 

"  My  Conrad !  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 

"  Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth — and  many  a  home 

"  As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam : 

"  Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear,  390 

"  I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here ; 

"  Then  not  for  mine — but  that  far  dearer  life, 

"  Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife — 


THE  CORSAIR.  21 

w  How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 
"  Should  \var  with  nature  and  its  better  will !  " 

"  Yea,  strange  indeed — that  heart  hath  long  been  changed, 

"  Worm-like  'twas  trampled — adder-like  avenged, 

"  Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 

"  And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 

"  Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn,  400 

"  My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them, 

"  So  closely  mingling  here,  that  disentwin'd, 

"  I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind : 

"  Yet  dread  not  this — the  proof  of  all  the  past 

"  Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last ; 

"  But — Oh,  Medora !  nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 

"  This  hour  again — but  not  for  long — we  part.*' 

"  This  hour  we  part ! — my  heart  foreboded  this. 

"  Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss — 

"  This  hour — it  cannot  be — this  hour  away !  410 

"  Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchored  in  the  bay. 

"  Her  consort  still  is  absent — and  her  crew 

"  Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew ; 


22  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  My  love !  thou  mock'st  my  weakness ;  and  would'st  steel 

"  My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  feel. 

"  But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress, 

"  Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness  : 

"  Be  silent, — Conrad  ! — dearest — come  and  share 

"  The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare — 

"  Light  toil!  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare!  420 

"  See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best, 

"  And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleased,  I  guess'd 

"  At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest :  thrice  the  hill 

"  My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 

"  Yes  !  thy  Sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 

"  See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow! 

"  The  grapes'  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers — 

"  Thou — more  than  Moslem — when  the  cup  appears — 

"  Think  not  I  mean  to  chide — for  I  rejoice 

"  What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice.  430 

"  But  come — the  board  is  spread — our  silver  lamp 

"  Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  Sirocco's  damp: 

"  Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along, 

"  And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song ; 

"  Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

"  Shall  soothe  or  lull — or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear, 


I 


THE  CORSAIR.  23 

"  We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told, 

"  Of  fair  Olympia  lov'd  and  left  of  old.1 

"  Why — thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 

"  To  that  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  now ;      440 

"  Or  even  that  traitor  chief— I've  seen  thee  smile, 

"  When  the  clear  sky  showed  Ariadne's  Isle, 

"  Which  I  have  poiated  from  these  cliffs  the  while : 

"  And  thus — half  sportive — half  in  fear — I  said, 

"  Lest  Time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  dread, 

"  Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main : 

"  And  he  deceiv'd  me — for — he  came  again !" 

"  Again — again — and  oft  again — my  love ! 

"  If  there  be  life  below,  and  hope  above, 

"  He  will  return — but  now — the  moments  bring          450 

"  The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing : 

"  The  why — the  where — what  boots  it  now  to  tell  ? 

"  Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word — farewell ! 

"  Yet  would  I  fain — did  time  allow — disclose — 

"  Fear  not — these  are  no  formidable  foes ; 

"  And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard, 

"  For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepar'd : 


24  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Nor  be  them  lonely — though  thy  lord's  away, 

"  Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay ; 

"  And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  next  \ve  meet,          460 

"  Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet : 

"  List! — 'tis  the  bugle — Juan  shrilly  blew — 

"  One  kiss — one  more — another — Oh!  Adieu!" 

She  rose — she  sprung — she  clung  to  his  embrace, 

Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 

He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 

That  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 

Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 

In  all  the  wilduess  of  dishevelled  charms ; 

Scarce  beat  that  bosom — where  his  image  dwelt —         410 

So  full — that  feeling  seem'd  almost  unfelt ! 

Hark — peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun  ! 

It  told  'twas  sunset — and  he  curs'd  that  sun. 

Again — again — that  form  he  madly  pressed, 

Which  mutely  clasp'd — imploringly  cai  ess'd  ! 

And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore, 

One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more — 

Felt — that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 

Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead — turn'd — is  Conrad  gone  ? 


1 11K  CORSAIR.  2.5 

\\. 

"  And  is  he  gone  ?" — on  sudden  solitude  480 

How  oft  that  fearful  question  \vill  intrude  ? 
"  'Twas  but  an  instant  past — and  here  he  stood  ! 
"  And  now" — without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd — 
And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd, 
Big — bright — and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell ; 
But  still  her  lips  refus'd  to  send — "  Farewell!" 
For  in  that  word — that  fatal  word — howe'er 
We  promise — hope — believe — there  breathes  despair. 
O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 
Had  sorrow  lix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase :  490 

The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy — 
Till — Oh,  how  far!  it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him — 
And  then  it  flovv'd — and  phrenzied  seem'd  to  swim 
Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew'd 
With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renevt'd. 
"  He's  gone!" — against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 
Convuls'd  and  quick — then  gently  raised  to  heaven  ; 
She  look'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main  ; 
The  white  sail  set — she  dared  not  look  again  ;  500 


26  THE  CORSAIR. 

But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate — 
"  It  is  no  dream — and  I  am  desolate !" 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending — swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turnM  his  head ; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey — 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep, 
That  hailed  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep : 
And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar,  510 

On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest — but  on  Destruction's  brink—- 
Yet once  almost  he  stopp'd — and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave ; 
But  no — it  must  not  be — a  worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 
He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind, 
And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind  : 
Again  he  hurries  on — and  as  he  hears 
The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 


I 


THE  CORSAIR.  27 

The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle- of  the  shore, 

The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar — 

As  marks  his  eye  the  seaboy  on  the  mast, 

The  anchor's  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 

The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 

That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge ; 

And  more  than  all — his  blood-red  flag  aloft — 

He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 

Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast, 

He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest ;  .530 

He  bounds — he  flies — until  his  footsteps  reach 

The  verge  where  ends  the  cliflf,  begins  the  beach, 

There  checks  his  speed ;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 

The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath, 

Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew ; 

Nor  rush,  disturb'd  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view  : 

For  well  had  Conrad  learn'd  to  awe  the  crowd, 

By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud ; 

His  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien, 

That  seems  to  shun  the  sight — and  awes  if  seen  :        540 

The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 

That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy ; 


28  THE  CORSAIR. 

All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent — 

But  where  he  wished  to  win,  so  well  unbent, 

That  kindness  cancelled  fear  in  those  who  heard, 

And  other's  gifts  shewed  mean  beside  his  word — 

When  echoed  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own, 

His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone  : 

But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 

He  cared  not  what  he  soften' d— -but  subdued  ; —          550 

The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 

Him  value  less  who  loved — than  what  obeyed. 

XVII. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 
Before  him  Juan  stands — "  Are  all  prepared  ?" 

"  They  are — nay  more — embarked  :  the  latest  boat 

"  Waits  but  my  chief " 

"  My  sword,  and  my  capote." 
Soon  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung ; 
"  Call  Pedro  here  !"     He  comes — and  Conrad  bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign'd  his  friends ;  560 


I 


THE  CORSAIR.  2<J 

"  Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  care, 

"  Words  of  high  trust,  and  trutli  are  graven  there ; 

"  Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 

"  Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark  : 

"  In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  shall  shine 

"  On  our  return — till  then  all  peace  be  thine !  " 

This  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung, 

Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 

FlashM  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke, 

Around  the  waves'  phosphoric1  brightness  broke  ;         57O 

They  gain  the  vessel — on  the  deck  he  stands. 

Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle — ply  the  busy  hands — 

He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys, 

How  gallant  all  her  crew — and  deigns  to  praise. 

His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn ; 

Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  ? 

Alas!  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower, 

And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour; 

She — his  Medora — did  she  mark  the  prow  ? 

Ah  !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now !  580 

But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day. 

Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away  ; 


30  THE  CORSAIR. 

Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends, 

And  there  unfolds  his  plan — his  means — and  ends ; 

Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart, 

And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art ; 

They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate — 

To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  ? 

Mean  time,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew> 

And  fast  and  Falcon-like  the  vessel  flew  ;  590 

Pass'd  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isle, 

To  gain  their  port — long — long  ere  morning  smile : 

And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 

Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 

Count  they  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  supine 

The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine ; 

Secure — unnoted — Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by, 

And  anchor' d  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie  ; 

Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 

That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape.  600 

Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep — 

Equipp'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep ; 

While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 

And  calmly  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood ! 

END  OF  CANTO  I. 


THE  CORSAIR 


CANTO  IF. 


tf  Conosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri  ?" 

DANTE. 


I. 

IN  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  Galley  light, 

Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 

For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  gives  a  feast  to-night : 

A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 

When  he  shall  drag  the  fetter'd  Rovers  home ; 

This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword, 

And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 

His  summoned  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 

And  great  the  gathering  crews — and  loud  the  boast — 

Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize, 

Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise. 


610 


32  THE  COBS AI  It. 

'Tis  but  to  sail — no  doubt  to-morrow's  Sun 

Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — their  haven  won !  • 

Mean  time  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 

]Vor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill : 

Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek  620 

To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek  ; 

How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave — 

To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave  ! 

Infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay, 

Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 

And  do  riot  deign  to  smite  because  they  may  ! 

Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow, 

To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 

Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile, 

And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile ;  630 

For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer, 

And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 

II. 

High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Seyd : 
Around — the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilaff — 
Forbidden  draughts,  'tis  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 


THE  CORSAIR.  3* 

Though  to  flic  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice,3 

The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslem's  use ; 

The  long  Chibouque's4  dissolving  cloud  supply, 

While  dance  the  Almas s  to  wild  minstrelsy  :  640 

The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark  ; 

But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark : 

And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 

On  silken-couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep ; 

Feast  there  who  can — nor  combat  till  they  must, 

And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 

And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 

Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast. 

III. 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate, 

Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait,  650 

Bows  his  bent  head — his  hand  salutes  the  floor, 

Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore : 

"  A  captive  Dervise,  from  the  pirate's  nest 

"  Escaped,  is  here — himself  would  tell  the  rest." 

He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye, 

And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 

D 


34  THE  CORSAIR. 

His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest, 

His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest ; 

Yet  worn  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 

And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears,        660 

Vow'd  to  his  God — his  sable  locks  he  wore, 

And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er : 

Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 

And  wrapt  a  breast  bestow'd  on  heaven  alone ; 

Submissive,  yet  with  self-possession  mann'd, 

He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd ; 

And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 

Before  the  Pacha's  will  allowed  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise  i* 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den,.     670 
"  A  fugitive— 'y 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?" 
"  From  Scalanova's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
"  The  Saick  was  bound ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 
"  Upon  our  course — the  Moslem  merchant's  gain* 
u  The  Rovers  won ;  our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains. 


THE  CORSALR. 

"  I  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 
"  Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I  lost ; 
"  At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
"  Afforded  hope,  and  offer'd  chajice  of  flight : 
"  I  seized  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here — 
''  With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha!  who  can  fear?" 


680 


"  How  speed  the  outlaws  ?  stand  they  well  prepared, 
"  Their  plunder'd  wealth,  and  robber's  rock,  to  guard? 
"  Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom'd 
*  To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed  r" 

"  Pacha !  the  fettered  captive's  mourning  eye 

"  That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy ; 

"  I  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar, 

"  Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the  shore ; 

"  I  only  mark'd  the  glorious  sun  and  sky,  690 

"  Too  bright — too  blue — for  my  captivity ; 

"  And  felt — that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  cheete, 

"  Must  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 

"  This  may'st  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escape, 

"  They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril's  shape: 


36  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Else  vainly  had  I  prayed  or  sought  the  chance 

"  That  leads  me  here — if  eyed  with  vigilance : 

t(  The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 

"  May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh. 

"  Pacha ! — my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves  70$ 

"  Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves ; 

"  Permit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee !  Peace 

"  With  all  around ! — now  grant  repose — release." 

"  Stay,  Dervise !  I  have  more  to  question — stay, 
"  I  do  command  thee — sit — dost  hear  ? — .obey ! 
"  More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring ; 
"  Thou  shalt  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting : 
"  The  supper  done — prepare  thee  to  reply, 
"  Clearly  and  full — I  love  not  mystery." 

'Twere  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  man,  710 

Who  look'd  not  lovingly  on  that  'Divan ; 

Nor  show'd  high  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 

And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest. 

'Twas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past 

Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast : 


THE  CORSAIR.  37 

He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 

Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook : 

The  feast  was  usher'd  in — but  sumptuous  fare 

He  shuun'd  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 

For  one  so  long  condemn'd  to  toil  and  fast,  720 

Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 

"  What  ails  thee,  Dervisc  ?  eat — dost  thou  suppose 

11  This  feast  a  Christian's  ?  or  my  friends  thy  foes  ? 

"  Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt?  that  sacred  pledge, 

"  Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 

"  Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 

"  And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !" 

41  Salt  seasons  dainties — and  my  food  is  still 

"  The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill ; 

"  And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  6  laws  oppose  730 

"  To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes ; 

"  It  may  seem  strange — if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 

"  That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head ; 

"  But  for  thy  sway — nay  more — thy  Sultan's  throne, 

"  I  taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet — save  alone; 


3S  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  ragfe 
"  To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage/* 

"  Well — as  thou  wilt — ascetic  as  thou  art — 
"  One  question  answer ;  then  in  peace  depart. 
u  How  many  ?. — Ha !  it  cannot  sure  be  day  ?  740 

f  What  star. — what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 
"  It  shines  a  lake  of  fire ! — away — away ! 
"  Ho !  treachery !  my  guards  !  my  scimitar ! 
"  The  galleys  feed  the  flames — and  I  afar ! 
"  Accursed  Dervise ! — these  thy  tidings — thou 
*'  Some  villain  spy — seize — cleave  him— slay  him  now  \" 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 

Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 

Up  rose  that  Dervise — not  in  saintly  garb, 

But  like  a  warrior  bounding  from  his  barb,  750 

Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 

Shone  his  maiPd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray ! 

His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume, 

More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom, 

Glared  on  the  Moslems*  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite, 

Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 


THE  CORSAIR.  89 

The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 

Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below ; 

The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 

For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell,  760 

Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell! 

Distracted  to  and  fro  tire  flying  slaves 

Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves ; 

Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 

They  seize  that  Dervise ! — seize  on  Zatanai ! 7 

He  saw  their  terror — chcck'd  the  first  despair 

That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 

Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd, 

The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made ; 

He  saw  their  terror — from  his  baldric  drew  770 

His  bugle — brief  the  blast — but  shrilly  blew, 

'Tis  answer'd — "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew ! 

"  Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career  ? 

"  And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ?" 

Sweeps  his  long  arm — that  sabre's  whirling  sway, 

Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay ; 

Completes  his  fury,  what  their  fear  begun, 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 


40  THE  CORSAIR. 

The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head :  780 

Even  Seyd,  convuls'd,  o'erwhelm'd  with  rage,  surprize, 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he — and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 

So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe  ! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight;8 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Haram  gate, 

And  burst  within — and  it  were  death  to  wait ; 

Where  wild  Amazement  shrieking — kneeling — throws 

The  sword  aside — in  vain — the  blood  o'erflows !  790 

The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within, 

Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 

Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 

Proclaim'd  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 

They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A  glutted  tyger  mangling  in  his  lair ! 

But  short  their  greeting — shorter  his  reply — 

"  'Tis  well — but  Seyd  escapes — and  he  must  die. 


THE  CORSAIR.  41 

w>  Much  hath  been  done — but  more  remains  to  do — 

*'  Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too  ?"  300 

V. 

Quick  at  the  word — they  seized  him  each  a  torch, 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A  stern  delight  was  fixM  in  Conrad's  eye, 

But  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  the  cry 

Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 

Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yell. 

"  Oh !  burst  the  Haram — wrong  not  on  your  lives 

"  One  female  form — remember — zee  have  wives. 

u  On  them  such  outrage  Vengeance  will  repay ; 

"  Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  'tis  ours  to  slay:  810 

"  But  still  we  spared — must  spare  the  weaker  prey. 

"  Oh !  I  forgot — but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 

"  If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live ; 

"  Follow  who  will — I  go— we  yet  have  time 

"  Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 

He  climbs  the  crackling  stair — he  bursts  the  door, 

Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor ; 

His  breath  choak'd  gasping  with  the  volumed  smoke, 

But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke : 


442  TH     CORSAIR 

They  search — they  find — they  save  :  with  lusty  arms    820 

Each  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms ; 

Calm  their  loud  fears ;  sustain  their  sinking  frames 

With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims  : 

So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood, 

And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 

But  who  is  she  ?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 

From  reeking  pile  and  combat's  wreck — away— - 

Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed  ? 

The  Haram  queen — but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd ! 

VI. 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare*,  SIX) 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair ; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  from  war, 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far, 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 

First  slowlier  fled — then  rallied — then  withstood. 

This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few, 

Compar'd  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew, 

And  blushes  o'er  his  error  as  he  eyes 

The  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprize. 


T11K  CORSAIR.  »  i 

Alia  il  Alia  !  Vengeance  swells  the  cry —  840 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die  ! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell, 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flowed  too  well — 

When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife, 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  beheld  the  danger — he  beheld 

His  followers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repelled: 

"  One  effort — one — to  break  the  circling  host!" 

They  form — unite — charge — waver — all  is  lost ! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset,  850 

1  lopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet — 

Ah !  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 

Hemm'd  in — cut  off — cleft  down — and  trampled  o'er ; 

But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 

Ajid  sinks  out  wearied  rather  than  o'ercome, 

His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  with  his  breath, 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death  !  t 


VII. 

But  first,  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 


44  THE  CORSAIR. 

Gulnare  and  all  her  Haram  handmaids  freed, 

Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed 

By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow'd, 

And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that  flow'd : 

And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 

RecalPd  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair, 

Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 

That  smooth'd  his  accents — soften'd  in  his  eye. 

'Twas  strange — that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd, 

Seem'd  gentler  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood. 

The  Pacha  wooed  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave  870 

Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 

The  Corsair  vowed  protection,  sootlr  d  affright, 

As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 

"  The  wish  is  wrong — nay  worse  for  female — vain : 

"  Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again ; 

"  If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot, 

"  The  life — my  loving  lord  remembered  not !" 

VIII. 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread, 
But  gathered  breathing  from  the  happier  dead ; 


Till-  CORSA1U  1'. 

Far  Irom  his  baud,  and  battling  with  a  host  880 

That  deem  right  dearly  \\  on  the  field  he  lost, 

FelFd — bleeding — baffled  of  the  death  he  sought, 

And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 

Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain, 

While  Vengeance  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  pain, 

And  staunch'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again — 

But  drop  by  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 

Would  doom  him  ever  dying — ne'er  to  die ! 

Can  this  be  he  ?  triumphant  late  she  saw, 

When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law  !  890 

'Tis  he  indeed — disarm'd  but  undeprest, 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 

His  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 

Which  would  have  kiss'd  the  hand  that  then  could  kill. 

Oh  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 

To  send  his  soul — he  scarcely  asked  to  heaven  ? 

Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striv'n  and  struck  for  death  .? 

He  deeply  felt — what  mortal  hearts  must  feel; 

When  thus  reversed  on  faithless  fortune's  wheel,  900 


46  THE  CORSAIR, 

For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  threat 

Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt ;  but  evil  pride 

That  led  to  perpetrate — now  serves  to  hide. 

Still  in  his  stern  and  self-collected  mien 

A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen, 

Though  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffening  wound, 

But  few  that  saw — so  calmly  gaz'd  around  : 

Though  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd, 

Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud,  910 

The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near, 

Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear — 

And  the  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 

In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 

IX. 

The  Leech  was  sent — tout  not  in  mercy — there 

To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear ; 

He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain, 

And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain  : 

To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's  evening  sun 

Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun,  920 


THE  CORSAIR.  4? 

And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  morn 

Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  arc  borne;. 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 

Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 

While  famish'd  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

n  Oh  !  water  —water  !"  —  smiling  Hate  denies 

The  victim's  prayer  —  for  if  he  drinks  —  he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom  :  —  the  Leech,  the  guard  were  gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone.  930 


X. 

Twere  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew  — 
It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 
There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 
When  all  its  elements  convuls'd  —  combined  — 
Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 
And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse  ; 
That  juggling  fiend  —  who  never  spake  before  — 
But  cries,  "  I  warn'd  thee  !"  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 
Vain  voice  !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent, 
May  writhe—  rebel—  the  weak  alone  repent  ! 


48  THE  CORSAIR, 

Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 
And  to  itself  all — all  that  self  reveals, 
No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought, 
But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews — 
All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues — 
Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 
Endangered  glory,  life  itself  beset ; 
5  he  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 
Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate  j         Q50 
The  hopeless  past — the  hasting  future  driven 
Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven  ; 
Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remembered  not 
So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot; 
Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 
But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime ; 
The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd, 
Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceal'd — 
All — in  a  word — from  which  all  eyes  must  start, 
That  opening  sepulchre — the  naked  heart  960 

Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake, 
To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul — and  break. 


THE  CORSAIR.  49 

Ay — Pride  can  veil,  and  Courage  brave  it  all — 

-All — all — before — beyond — the  deadliest  fall: 

Each  hath  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 

The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise  : 

Not  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies  ; 

But  he  who  looks  on  death — and  silent  dies : 

So  steel'd  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  career, 

He  halfway  meets  him  should  he  menace  near !  970 

XL 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower, 
Sate  Conrad,  fetter'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame — this  fort 
Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 
His  foe,  if  vanquished,  had  but  shared  the  same  : — 
Alone  he  sate — in  solitude  had  scann'd 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann'd : 
One  thought  alone  he  could  not — dared  not  meet — 
"  Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet?"  980 

Then — only  then — his  clanking  hands  he  rais'd, 
And  strain' d  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed  ; 

E 


50  THE  CORSAIK. 

But  soon  he  found — or  feign'd — or  dream'd  relief. 
And  smiFd  in  self-derision  of  his  grief, 
"  And  now  come  torture  when  it  will — or  may — 
"  More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day!" 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 

'Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 

For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done ;  990 

And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 

She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 

One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemm'd — - 

Disguis'd — discovered — conquering — ta'en — condemn'd- 

A  chief  on  land — an  outlaw  on  the  deep — 

Destroying — saving — prison'd — and  asleep ! 

XII.         .  s 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming — for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep — Ah !  happy  if  in  death ! 
He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends  ? 
His  foes  are  gone— and  here  he  hath  no  friends;       1000 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  ? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face ! 


THE  CORSAIR.  51 

Its  white  arm  rais'd  a  lamp — yet  gently  hid, 

Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 

Of  that  clos'd  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 

And  once  unclosed — but  once  may  close  again. 

That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 

And  auburn  waves  of  gemm'd  and  braided  hair ; 

With  shape  of  fairy  lightness — naked  foot, 

That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute —      1010 

Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  there  t 

All !  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare  ? 

Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare ! 

She  could  not  sleep — and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 

In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 

She  left  his  side — his  signet  ring  she  bore, 

Which  oft  in  sport  adorn'd  her  hand  before — 

And  with  it,  scarcely  questioned,  won  her  way 

Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 

Worn  out  vvith  toil,  and  tir'd  with  changing  blows,      1020 

Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose ; 

And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door, 

They  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more — 

Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 

Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 


1 


52  THE  CORSAIR. 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  "  can  he  calmly  sleep, 

"  While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep? 

"  And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here — 

"  What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear  ? 

"  True — 'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more,  I  owe,  1030 

"  And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe : 

"  Tis  late  to  think — but  soft — his  slumber  breaks — 

"  How  heavily  he  sighs ! — he  starts — awakes !" 

He  rais'd  his  head — and  dazzled  with  the  light, 

His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright : 

He  moved  his  hand — the  grating  of  his  chain 

Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  liv'd  again. 

"  What  is  that  form  ?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 

"  Methinks,  my  jailor's  face  shows  wond'rous  fair !" 

"  Pirate !  thou  know'st  me  not — but  I  am  one,  1040 

"  Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done ; 

"  Look  on  me — and  remember  her,  thy  hand 

"  Snatch'd  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearful  band. 


THE  CORSAIR.  55 

"  I  come  through  darkness — and  I  scarce  know  \vhy— 
"  Yet  not  to  hurt — I  would  not  see  thee  die." 

"  If  so,  kind  lady !  thine  the  only  eye 

"  That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight : 

"  Theirs  is  the  chanco — and  let  them  use  their  right. 

"  But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 

"  That  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a  shrine!"  10.50 

Strange  though  it  seem — yet  with  extremest  grief 

Is  limVd  a  mirth — it  doth  not  bring  relief — 

That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 

And  smiles  in  bitterness — but  still  it  smiles — 

And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 

Till  even  the  scaffold I0  echoes  with  their  jest ! 

Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin — 

It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  within. 

Whate'er  it  was  that  flash'd  on  Conrad,  now 

A  laughing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow :  106O 

And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth, 

As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth ; 


34  THE  CORSAIR. 

Yet  'gainst  his  nature — for  through  that  short  life, 
Few  thoughts  had  he  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 

XIV. 

11  Corsair !  thy  doom  is  named — but  I  have  power 

"  To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

"  Thee  would  I  spare — nay  more — would  save  thee  now, 

"  But  this — time — hope — nor  even  thy  strength  allow ; 

"  But  all  I  can,  I  will :  at  least,  delay 

"  The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day.  1070 

"  More  now  were  ruin— even  thyself  were  loth 

"  The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

"  Yes! — loth  indeed : — my  soul  is  nerv'd  to  all, 

"  Or  falPn  too  low  to  fear  a  further  fall: 

"  Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril — me  with  hope, 

"  Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope ; 

"  Unfit  to  vanquish — shall  I  meanly  fly, 

"  The  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die  ? — 

"  Yet  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 

"  'Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  springs.      .1080 


THE  CORSAIR.  ,35 

"  My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 

"  Were  these — my  bark — my  sword — my  love — my  God! 

"  The  last  I  left  in  youth — he  leaves  me  now — 

"  And  Man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 

"  I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 

"  Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair, 

"  It  is  enough — I  breathe — and  I  can  bear. 

"  My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 

"  That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand ; 

11  My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive — but  my  love —  1090 

"  For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above : 

"  Oh  !  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind — 

"  And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 

"  And  blight  a  form — till  thine  appeared,  Gulnare ! 

"  Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  fair  ?° 

"  Thou  lov'st  another  then  ? — but  what  to  me 

"  Is  this- — 'tis  nothing — nothing  e'er  can  be : 

"  But  yet — thou  lov'st — and — Oh!  I  envy  those 

"  Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose, 

"  Who  never  feel  the  void — the  wandering  thought     J100 

"  That  sighs  o'er  visions — such  as  mine  hath  wrought." 


56  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Lady — methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
"  This  arm  redeem'd  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb/' 

"  My  love  stern  Seyd's  ?  Oh — No — No — not  my  love — 

"  Yet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 

"  To  meet  his  passion — but  it  would  not  be. 

"  I  felt — I  feel — love  dwells  with — with  the  free. 

"  I  am  a  slave,  a  favoured  slave  at  best, 

t€  To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest ! 

"  Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo,  1110 

"  Of—  Dost  thou  love  ?'  and  burn  to  answer  '  No  !' 

"  Oh  !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain, 

"  And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain ; 

"  But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear, 

"  And  hide  from  one — perhaps  another  there. 

€t  He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not — nor  withhold — 

"  Its  pulse  nor  check'd — nor  quicken'd — calmly  cold  : 

"  And  when  he  quits — it  drops  a  lifeless  weight  < 

"  From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 

"  No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest,  1 12(> 

"  And  chilFd  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest. 


THE  CORSAIR.  .57 

"  Yes — had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 

"  The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel : 

"  But  still — he  goes  unmouni'd — returns  unsought — 

"  And  oft  when  present — absent  from  my  thought. 

"  Or  when  reflection  comes,  and  come  it  must — 

"  I  fear  that  henceforth  'twill  but  bring  disgust; 

"  I  am  his  slave — but,  in  despite  of  pride, 

"  'Twere  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride. 

"  Oh!  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease!       113O 

"  Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 

"  But  yesterday — I  could  have  said,  to  peace ! 

"  Yes — if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 

"  Remember — captive  !  'tis  to  break  thy  chain. 

"  Repay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe ; 

"  To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear'd  below, 

"  Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  know. 

"  Farewell — morn  breaks — and  I  must  now  away : 

"  Twill  cost  me  dear — but  dread  no  death  to-day ! 


XV. 

She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart, 
And  bow'd  her  head,  and  turn'd  her  to  depart, 


1140 


38  THE  CORSAIK. 

And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 

And  was  she  here  ?  and  is  he  now  alone  ? 

What  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chain  ? 

The  tear  most  sacred — shed  for  others'  pain — 

That  starts  at  once — bright — pure — from  Pity's  mine. 

Already  polish'd  by  the  band  divine ! 

Oh !  too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 

In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear ! 

That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield,  1 1 50 

To  save — subdue — at  once  her  spear  and  shield — 

Avoid  it — Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs, 

Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers  ! 

What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  ? 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven, 

this — how  many  lose  not  earth — but  heaven  ! 
Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe, 
And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe! 

XVI. 

'Tis  morn — and  o'er  his  alter'd  features  play  1160 

The  beams — without  the  hope  of  yesterday. — 


THE  CORSA1H. 

What  shall  he  be  ere  night  ?  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing : 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfelt, 
While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 
Chill — wet — and  misty  round  each  stiffened  limb, 
Refreshing  earth — reviving  all  but  him  ! — 


tND  OF  CANTO  11, 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  III. 


"  Come  vedi — ancor  non  m'abbandona." 

DANTE. 


I. 

SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 

Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 

Not  as  in  Northern  climes  obscurely  bright,  1 1 70 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 

O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 

On  old  jEgina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 

The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile  ; 

O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 

Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 


62  THE  CORSAIR. 

Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 

Thy  glorious  gulph,  unconquer'd  Salamis  ! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse  i  1  80 

More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 

And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 

Mark  his  gay  course  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven  : 

Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 

Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 


On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When  —  Athens  !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watched  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  "  latest  day  ! 
Not  yet  —  not  yet  —  Sol  pauses  on  the  hill  — 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still  ; 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes  : 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before, 
But  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithaeron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  qnafFd  —  the  spirit  fled  : 


TIIK  CORSAIR.  t;:> 

The  soul  of  him  who  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  liv'd  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die! 

But  lo!  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain,  1200 

The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.  ** 

No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 

Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 

With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 

There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 

And  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset 

Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 

The  groves  of  olive  scattered  dark  and  wide 

Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 

The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque,  1210 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosfc,13 

And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm. 

Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 

All  tinged  with  varied  hues  arrest  the  eye — 

And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  /Egean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chaf d  breast  from  elemental  war ; 


64  THE  CORSAIH. 

Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 

Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 

Mixt  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle,  1<2<>() 

That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile.14 

II. 

Not  now  my  theme — why  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

Oh  !  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea, 

Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whatever  the  tale, 

So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail  ? 

Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set, 

Fair  Athens  !  could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 

Not  he — whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 

Spell-bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades  ! 

Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain,  1230 

His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain — 

Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again  ! 

III. 

The  Sun  hath  sunk — and,  darker  than  the  night, 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height — 
Medora's  heart — the  third  day's  come  and  gone — 
With  it  he  comes  not — sends  not — faithless  one  ! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light — and  storms  were  none, 


THK  CORSAIR.  65 

Last  ere  Anselmo's  bark  return'd,  and  yet 

His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met! 

Though  \vild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale         121-0 

Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens — she  that  day  had  past 

In  watching  all  that  Hope  proclaimed  a  mast ; 

Sadly  she  sate — on  high — Impatience  bore 

At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 

And  there  she  wandered  heedless  of  the  spray 

That  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  warn'd  away : 

She  saw  not — felt  not  this — nor  dared  depart, 

Nor  deemed  it  cold — her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 

Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense —  1250 

His  very  Sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense  ! 

It  came  at  last — a  sad  and  shattered  boat, 
Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought — 
Some  bleeding — all  most  wretched — these  the  few— 
Scarce  knew  they  how.  escaped — this  all  they  knew. 
In  silence  darkling  each  appeared  to  wait 
His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate. 

r 


*6  THE  COIISAIR. 

Something  they  would  have  said ;  but  seemed  to  fear 

To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not — trembled  not —          12GO 

Beneath  that  grief — that  loneliness  of  lot — 

Within  that  meek  fair  form  were  feelings  high^ 

That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 

While  yet  was  Hope — they  soften'd — fluttered — wept — 

All  lost — that  softness  died  not — but  it  slept — 

And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 

"  With  nothing  left  to  love — there's  nought  to  dread." 

'Tis  more  than  nature's;  like  the  burning  might 

Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  you  stand — nor  would  I  hear  you  tell  127Q 

"  What — speak  not — breathe  not — for  I  know  it  well — 
"  Yet  would  I  ask — almost  my  lip  denies 
"  The — quick  your  answer— -tell  me  where  he  lies  ?" 

"  Lady !  we  know  not — scarce  with  life  we  fled ; 

"  But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead : 

"  He  saw  him  bound ;  and  bleeding — but  alive." 

She  heard  no  further — 'twas  in  vain  to  strive — 


THE  CORSAIR.  OT 

So  throbb'd  each  vein — each  thought — till  then  withstood; 

Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued — 

She  totters — falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave  1280 

Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave; 

But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes, 

They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supplies  : 

Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew, 

Raise — fan — sustain — till  life  returns  anew ; 

Awake  her  handmaids — with  the  matrons  leave 

That  fainting  form  o'er  \\hich  they  gaze  and  grieve; 

Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern  to  report 

The  tale  too  tedious — when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 

ID  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange,  1290 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge  ; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight— still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair ; 
Whatever  his  fate — the  breasts  he  form'd  and  led, 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Woe  to  his  foes !  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 


68  THE  CORSAIH. 

Vv" 

Within  the  Haram's  secret  chamber  sate 
Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  Captive's  fate ; 
His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell,  1300 

Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell  j 
Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 
Surveys  his  brow — would  soothe  his  gloom  of  mind, 
While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  eye 
Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 
His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads,15 
But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha  !  the  day  is  thine ;  and  on  thy  crest 

"  Sits  Triumph — Conrad  taken— falPn  the  rest ! 

"  His  doom  is  fix'd — he-dies— and  well  his  fate          1310 

"  Was  earn'd — yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate  : 

"  Methinks — a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 

tf  With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold ; 

"  Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 

"  Would  that  of  this  my  Paclm  were  the  Lord  1 


THE  CORSAIR. 

'*  While  baffled — weakened  by  this  fatal  fray — 
"  \Vatch\I — followed — he  were  then  an  easier  prey  ; 
"  But  once  cut  off — the  remnant  of  his  band 
"  Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 


Gulnare  ! — if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem  1320 

Were  offered  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem ; 

If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 

Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine  ; 

If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  not  redeem ! 

It  had  not  now  redeemed  a  single  hour-^ 

But  that  I  know  him  fetter'd,  in  my  power ; 

And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I  ponder  still 

On  pangs  that  longest  rack — and  latest  kill." 


"  Nay,  Seyd ! — I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 
"  Too  justly  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage ; 
"  My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 
"  His  riches — thus  released,  he  were  not  free : 
"  Disabled,  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  band, 
«  His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 


IfJSO 


,u  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  His  capture  could! — and  shall  I  then  resign 

"  One  day  to  him — the  wretch  already  mine  ? 

"  Release  my  foe  ! — at  whose  remonstrance  ? — thine ! 

"  Fair  suitor ! — to  thy  virtuous  gratitude, 

"  That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood,       1310 

tl  Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare, 

"No  doubt — regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 

"  My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due — now  hear  ! 

"  I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear : 

"  I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman  !  and  each  word 

#  Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 

"  Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai — 

"  Say,  \vert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  ? 

"  Thou  need'st  not  answer — thy  confession  speaks, 

u  Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks  ;  1350 

"  Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee  !  and  beware : 

"  'Tis  not  his  life  alone  may  claim  such  care  ! 

"  Another  word  and — nay — I  need  no  more. 

<(  Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 

"  Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far—but — no — 

"  I  then  had  mourn'd  thee  with  a  lover's  woe — 

fe  Now  'tis  thy  lord  that  warns — deceitful  thing ! 

**  Know'st  thou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing  ? 


THE  CORSAIR.  71 

"  In  words  alone  I  um  not  wont  to  chafe : 

"  Look  to  thyself — nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe  1"      1360 

lie  rose — and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdresy, 

Rage  in  his  eye  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 

Ah  !  little  reck'd  that  chief  of  womanhood — 

Which  frowns  ne'er  quell'd,  nor  menaces  subdued ; 

And  little  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart — Gulnare  ! 

When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incens'd  could  dare. 

His  doubts  appear'd  to  wrong — nor  yet  she  knew 

How  deep  the  root  from  whence  compassion  grew — 

She  was  a  slave — from  such  may  captives  claim 

A  fellow-feeling— differing  but  in  name ;  1 37$ 

Still  half  unconscious — heedless  of  his  wrath, 

Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path, 

Again  his  rage  repell'd — until  arose 

That  strife  of  thought — the  source  of  woman's  woes  ! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long  anxious — weary — still — the  same 
Roll'd  day  and  night — his  soul  could  terror  tame — 
This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread, 
\Vlien  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 


72  tHE  CORSAIR. 

When  ever}-  step  that  echoed  by  the  gate, 

Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await ;         1380 

When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 

Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ev^er  hear  ; 

Could  terror  tame — that  spirit  stern  and  high 

Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die ; 

Twas  worn — perhaps  decayed — yet  silent  bore 

That  conflict  deadlier  far  than  all  before  : 

The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 

Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 

But  bound  and  fiVd  in  fettered  solitude, 

To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood  ;  1390 

To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart — and  meditate 

Irrevocable  faults — and  coming  fate — - 

Too  late  the  last  to  shun — the  first  to  mend — 

To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 

With  not  a  friend  to  animate  and  tell 

To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well ; 

Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie. 

And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny : 

JSefore  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare, 

Yet  cjoubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear;    HOO 


I  UK  (ORSAiK  73 

But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 

To  valour's  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim  ; 

The  life  thou  leav'st  below — denied  above 

By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love, 

And  more  than  doubtful  paradise — thy  heaven 

Of  earthly  hope — thy  loved  one  from  thee  riven. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain, 

And  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain : 

And  those  sustained  he — boots  it  well  or  ill  ? 

Since  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  still!  1410 

VII. 

The  first  day  pass'd — he  saw  not  her — Gulnare — 

The  second — third — and  still  she  came  not  there ; 

But  what  her  words  avouch'd,  her  charms  had  done, 

Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  rolPd  along — and  with  the  night 

Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might: 

Oh  !  how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep, 

That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep ; 

And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 

Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element !  1420 


74  TJiE  CORSAIR. 

Oft  had  lie  ridden  on  that  winged  wave, 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gavs ; 

And  now  its  dashing  echoed  on  his  ear, 

A  long  known  voice — alas !  too  vainly  near! 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above — and,  doubly  loud, 

Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud  ; 

And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar, 

To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star : 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chain, 

And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain.  143$ 

He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  prayed 

One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made : 

His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike — 

The  storm  roll'd  onward  and  disdained  to  strike ; 

Its  peal  waxed  fainter — ceased — he  felt  alone, 

As  if  some  faithless  friend  had  spurn'd  his  groan ! 

VIII. 

The  midnight  pass'd — and  to  the  massy  door, 

A  light  step  came — it  paused — it  moved  once  more  ; 

Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key — 

Tis  as  his  heart  foreboded — that  fair  she !  1440 


THE  COns.MK. 


Whatc'er  her  sins — to  him  a  guardian  saint, 
And  beauteous  still  as  hermit's  hope  can  paint ; 
Yet  changed  since  last  within  that  ceil  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek — more  tremulous  her  frame : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye, 
Which  spoke  before  her  accents — "  thou  must  die! — 
"  Yes,  thou  must  die — there  is  but  one  resource, 
"  The  last — the  worst — if  torture  were  not  worse." 

u  Lady !  I  look  to  none — my  lips  proclaim  I44U 

"  What  last  proclaimed  they — Conrad  still  the  same : 
"  Why  should'st  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare, 
"  And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear  ? 
"  Well  have  I  earn'd — nor  here  alone — the  meed 
"  Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

"  Why  should  I  seek  ?  because — Oh !  didst  thou  not 

"  Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot  ? 

"  Why  should  I  seek  ? — hath  misery  made  thee  blind 

"  To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  mind ! 

"  And  must  I  say  ?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 

"  With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell —     1460 


76  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Because — despite  thy  crimes — that  heart  is  moved — 

"  It  Jfear'd  ,thee— thank'd  thee— pitied— madden'd— loved. 

"  Reply  not — tell  not  now  thy  tale  again, 

"  Thou  lov'st  another — and  I  love  in  vain ; 

"  Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fair, 

"  I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 

"  If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 

"  Were  I  thine  own — thou  wert  not  lonely  here — 

"  An  outlaw's  spouse — and  leave  her  lord  to  roam  ! 

"  What  halh  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home  ?         1470 

"  But  speak  not  now — o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head  ; 

"  Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread ; 

"  If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  would'st  be  free, 

"  Receive  this  poignard — -rise— and  follow  me !" 

"  Ay — in  my  chains !  my  steps  will  gently  tread, 
"  With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head ! 
"  Thou  hast  forgot — is  this  a  garb  for  flight  ? 
"  Or  is  tthat  instrument  more  fit  for  fight !" 

"  Misdoubting  Corsair !  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 

"  Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward.  1480 


THE  CORSAIR. 


77 


"  A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain : 
"  Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain  ? 
"  Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 
"  If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime : 
"  The  crime — 'tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd— 
"  That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad — he  must  bleed ! 
»    "  I  see  thee  shudder — but  my  soul  is  changed — 
"  Wrong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and  it  shall  be  avenged 
"  Accus'd  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd — 
"  Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 
"  Yes,  smile ! — but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 
"  I  was  not  treacherous  then — nor  thou  too  dear — 
"  But  he  has  said  it — and  the  jealous  well, 
"  Those  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel, 
"  Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 
"  I  never  loved — -he  bought  me — somewhat  high  - 
"  Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 
•  •  I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring ;  he  hath  said, 
"  But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 
"  Twas  false  thou  know'st — but  let  such  augurs  rue,  150O 
"  Their  words  are  omens,  Insult  renders  true. 
"  Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer; 
"  This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 
"  Nevf  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 


IS  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Mine  too  he  threatens;  but  his  dotage  still 

"  Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 

"  When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me, 

"  There  yawns  the  sack — and  yonder  rolls  the  sea ! 

"  What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 

"  'to  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ?  1510 

"  I  saw  thee — loved  thee — owe  thee  all — would  save, 

"  If  but  to  shew  how  grateful  is  a  ilave. 

"  But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 

"  (And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife) 

"  I  still  had  saved  thee — but  the  Pacha  spared. 

"  Now  I  am  all  thine  own — for  all  prepared — 

"  Thou  lov'st  me  not — nor  know'st — or  but  the  worst, 

"  Alas  !  this  love — that  hatred  are  the  first — 

"  Oh !  could'st  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  would'st  not  start, 

"  Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart,         1 520 

"  'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety — now 

"  It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow: 

"  But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 

"  There  sleeps — he  must  not  wake — the  oppressor  Seyd !" 

"  Gulnare — Guluare — I  never  felt  till  now 
"  My  abject  fortune— withered  fame  so  low : 


THE  CORSAIR.  M 

"  Seyd  is  mine  enemy :  had  swept  my  hand 

"  From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 

"  And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war, 

"  To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar ;  1530 

"  Such  is  my  weapon — not  the  secret  knife — 

"  Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life — 

4<  Thine  saved  I  gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this  — 

"  Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  *hc\vu  amiss. 

"  Now  fare  thee  well — more  peace  be  with  th\  bi . 

"  Night  wears  apace — my  last  of  earthly  rest!" 

"  Rest !  Rest !  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake, 

"  And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 

"  I  heard  the  order — saw — I  will  not  see — 

ft  If  thou  wilt  perish,  1  \vill  fall  with  thee.  I  ;  \  - 

11  My  life — my  love — my  hatred — all  below 

"  Are  on  this  cast — Corsair!  'tis  but  a  blow  f 

"  Without  it  flight  were  idle — how  evade 

"  His  sure  pursuit  ?  my  wrongs  too  utircpaid, 

"  My  youth  disgraced — the  long — long  wasted  year- 

"  One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears; 

"  But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand. 

u  I'll  trv  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand — 


*0  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  The  guards  are  gain'd — one  moment  all  were  o'er — 
"  Corsair  !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more ;  1550 

"  If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 
"  Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud." 

IX. 

She  turn'd,  and  vanished  ere  he  could  reply, 

But  his  glance  followed  far  with  eager  eye; 

And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 

His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound, 

Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude, 

He,  fast  as  fettered  limbs  allow,  pursued. 

Twas  dark  and  winding,  and  he  knew  not  where 

That  passage  led — nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there :    1560 

He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering — shall  he  seek 

Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak  ? 

Chance  guides  his  steps — a  freshness  seems  to  bear 

Full  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  air — 

He  reached  an  open  gallery — on  his  eye 

Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night — the  clearing  sky — 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  light 

From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight 


THE  CORSAIR. 


si 


Towards  it  he  moved,  a  scarcely  closing  door 
Reveal'd  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more.  1570 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past, 
Then  paused — and  tuni'd — and  paused — 'tis  She  at  last ! 
No  poignard  in  that  hand — nor  sign  of  ill— 
*  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart — she  could  not  kill !" 
Again  he  looked,  the  wildness  of  her  eye 
Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 
•She  stopp'd — threw  back  her  dark  far-floating  hair, 
That  nearly  veil'd  her  face  and  bosom  fair : 
As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 
Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread.  1589 

They  meet — upon  her  brow — unknown — forgot—- 
Her hurrying  hand  had  left — 'twas  but  a  spot — 
Its  hue  was  all  he  saw — and  scarce  withstood — 
Oh !  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime — 'tis  blood  J 

X. 

He  had  seen  battle — he  had  brooded  lone 
O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown — 
He  had  been  tempted — chastened — and  the  chain 
Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain — 


8-S  THE  CORSAIR, 

But  ne'er  from  strife — captivity — remorse — 

From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force —  1590 

So  thrill'd — so  shuddered  every  creeping  vein 

As  now  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak, 

Had  banish'id  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 

Blood  he  had  viewed — could  view  unmoved — but  then 

It  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men ! 

XL 

'u  'Tis  done — he  nearly  waked — but  it  is  done — 
"  Corsair !  he  perish'd — thou  art  dearly  won. 
"  All  words  would  now  be  vain — away — away ! 
"  Our  bark  is  tossing'— 'tis  already  day —  1600 

"  The  few  gain'd  over,  now  are  wholly  mine, 
"  And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join : 
"  Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  my  hand, 
a  When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand.11 

XII. 

She  clapp'd  her  hands — and  through  the  gallery  pour, 
JEquipp'd  for  flight,  her  vassals — Greek  and  Moor  5 


THE  CORSAIR.  S3 

Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind ; 

Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind ! 

But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate, 

As  if  they  there  transferred  that  iron  weight —  1610 

No  words  are  uttered — at  her  sign,  a  door 

Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore ; 

The  city  lies  behind — they  speed,  they  reach 

The  glad  \vaves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach ; 

And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd, 

Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betray'd ; 

Resistance  .were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 

Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

xm. 

Embark 'd,  tiie  sail  unfurPd,  the  light  breeze  blew—- 
How much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review !  1620 
Sunk  he  in  contemplation — till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchored  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah ! — since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown'd  above  the  mast, 
He  veil'd  his  face,  and  sorrowed  as  he  past ; 
He  thought  of  all — Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand  ; 


84  THE  CORSAIR. 

\       He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride — 

\     lie  turned  and  saw — Gulnare,  the  homicide!  163$ 

XIV. 

She  watch'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aspect  arid  averted  air, 
And  that  strange  fierceness  foreign  to  her  eye, 
Fell  quench'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him  and  his  hand  she  prest, 
ft  Thou  may'st  forgive  though  Alla's  self  detest; 
"  But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  ? 
*'  Reproach  me — but  not  yet — Oh !  spare  me  now! 
"  I  am  not  what  I  seem — this  fearful  night 
"  My  brain  bewilder'd — do  not  madden  quite !  1640 

"  If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
"  Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — hate  me — if  thou  wilt." 

XV. 

She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesigned,  the  wretch  he  made  j 
But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 
They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell — his  breast. 


THE  CORSAIR.  ** 

•Still  onward,  fair  iht   brrcv,  nor  rough  the  surge, 

The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge; 

Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck — 

A  spot — a  mast — a  sail — an  armed  deck  I  1G5O 

Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry, 

And  ampler  canvas  woos  the  wind  from  hiirh; 

She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 

Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier  ; 

A  flash  is  seen — the  ball  beyond  their  bow 

Booms  harmless  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 

Uprose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 

A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance ; 

"  'Tis  mine — my  blood- red  flag — again — agam — 

"  I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main  !"  1660 

"They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 

Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 

<;  'Tis  Conrad  !— Conrad!"  shouting  from  the  deck, 

Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check ! 

With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 

They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's  side ; 

A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face, 

Tlteir  arms  cnfi  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 


36  THE  CORSAIK, 

He — half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 

Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  may  greet,  1670 

Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand, 

And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command! 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  overflow, 

Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a  blow  ^ 

They  sail'd  prepared  for  vengeance — had  they  known 

A  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own, 

She  were  their  queen — less  scrupulous  are  they 

Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 

With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 

They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare  ;  1680 

And  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex, 

Whom  blood  appall'd  not,  their  regards  perplex. 

To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye, 

She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by ; 

Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 

Which — Conrad  safe — to  fate  resign'd  the  rest. 

Though  worse  than  phrenzy  could  that  bosom  till, 

Extreme. in  love  or  hate — in  good  or  ill, 

The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still ! 


I  ilK  CORSAIR.  17 

XVII. 

This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt — ah  !   could  he  less:        1690 
Hate  of  that  deed — Obut  grief  for  her  distress  ; 
What  she  had  done  no  tears  can  wash  away, 
And  heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day : 
But — it  was  done — he  knew,  whate'cr  her  guilt, 
For  him  that  poignard  smote — that  blood  was  spilt-* 
And  he  was  free  ! — -and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven ! 
And  now  he  turn'd  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave 
Whose  brow  was  bowed  beneath  the  glance  he  gave,  1699 
Who  now  seemed  changed  and  humbled  : — faint  and  meek, 
But  varying  oft  the  colour  of  her  cheek 
To  deeper  shafdes  of  paleness — all  it's  red 
That  fearful  spot  which  stain'd  it  from  the  dead ! 
He  took  that  hand — it  trembled — now  too  late — 
So  soft  in  love — so  wildly  nerved  in  hate ; 
He  clasp'd  that  hand — rt  trembled — -and  his  own 
Had  lost  it's  firmness,  and  his  voice  it's  tone. 
"  Gulnare!" — but  she  replied  not — "  dear  Gulnare!" 
She  raised  her  eye — her  only  answer  there — 
At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace : 
If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting  place, 


S3  THE  CORSAIR. 

His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 
But — good  or  ill — it  bade  her  not  depart. 
Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast, 
His  latest  virtue  then  had  joined  the  rest. 
Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  asked  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this—- 
The first — the  last  that  Frailty  stole  from  Faith — 
To  lips  where  Love  had  lavished  all  his  breath, 
To  lips — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling,      1720 
As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

XVIH. 

They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle. 

To  them  the  very  rocks  appear  to  smile, 

The  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  sound, 

The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 

The  boats  are  darting  o'er  the  curly  bay, 

And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray ; 

Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill  discordant  shriek, 

Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak ! 

Beneath  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleams,    1750 

Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Oh  !  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home, 

Like  Hope's  gay  glance  from  Ocean's  troubled  foam  ? 

XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower, 

And  midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower  : 

He  looks  in  vain  —  'tis  strange  —  and  all  remark, 

Amid  so  many,  her's  al'one  is  dark. 

5Tis  strange  —  of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd, 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguished,  only  veil'd. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore,  1  7*0 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh  !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight, 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave, 

He  waits  not  —  looks  not  —  leaps  into  the  wave, 

Strives  through  the  surge  —  bestrides  the  beach  —  and  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach'd  his  turret  door  —  he  paused  —  no  sound 
Broke  from  within—  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knock'd,  and  loudly  —  footstep  nor  reply  175O 

Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh  ; 


90  THE  CORSAIR. 

He  knock'd — but  faintly— for  his  trembling  hand 

Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 

The  portal  opens — 'tis  a  well  known  face — 

But  not  the  form  he  panted  fo  embrace. 

Its  lips  are  silent — twice  his  own  essay'd, 

And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delayed; 

He  snatch'd  the  lamp — its  light  will  answer  all — 

It  quits  his  grasp — expiring  in  the  fall. 

He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray —  1760 

As  soon  could  he  have  lingered  there  for  day ; 

But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore, 

Another  chequers  o'er  the  shadowed  floor ; 

His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  eyes  behold 

All  that  his  heart  believed  not— ^-yet  foretold! 

XX. 

He  turn'd  not— -spoke  not — sunk  not — flx'd  his  loofc, 

And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook : 

He  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 

And  know — but  dare  not  own  we  gaze  in  vain  f 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair,  1770 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  withered  there : 


THE  CORSAIR.  J 

And  the  cold  flowers  l6  her  colder  hand  contain'*}, 

In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  slrain'd 

As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep, 

And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep : 

The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow — 

And  veil'd — thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below — • 

Oil !  o'er  the  eye  death  most  exerts  his  might, 

And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 

Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse,  1780 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 

Yet — yet  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile, 

And  wish'd  repose — but  only  for  a  while  ; 

Hut  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 

Long — fair — but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness, 

Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 

Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind ; 

These — and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier — 

But  she  is  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

XXI. 

He  ask'd  no  question — all  were  answer'd  now  I79a 

By  the  first  glance  on  that  still — marble  brow. 
It  was  enough— she  died — what  reck'd  it  hour  ? 


U'2  THE  COllSAlft. 

The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 

The  source  of  softest  joy  and  tenderest  fears., 

The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate, 

Was  reft  at  once — and  he  deserv'd  his  fate, 

But  did  not  feel  it  less ; — the  good  explore, 

For  peace,  thoise  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soaf : 

The  proud — the  wayward — tvho.  have  fixed  below 

T.heir  joy — and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe,          1800 

Lose  in  that  one  their  all — perchance  a  mite — 

But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? 

Full  many  a  stoic  eye  antl  aspect  stern 

Hide  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  teft  to  learn  ; 

And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid — not  lost — 

In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 

XXII. 

By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  are  ill  exprest 

The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast; 

Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 

Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none;     18  JO 

No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show, 

Arid  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 


THE  CORSAIR.  «)  | 

On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 

And  stupor  almost  lull'd  it  into  rest; 

So  feeble  now — his  mother's  softness  crept 

To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  w-npt : 

It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 

Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 

None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if  seen, 

That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been  :  1 820 

Nor  long  they  flowed — he  dried  them  to  depart, 

Jn  helpless — hopeless — brokenness  of  heart : 

The  sun  goes  forth — but  Conrad's  day  is  dim — 

And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him — 

There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 

On  Griefs  vain  eye — the  blindest  of  the  blind  ! 

Which  may  not — dare  not  see — but  turns  aside 

To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a  guide  ! 

XXIII. 

His  heart  was  form'd  for  softness — warp'd  to  wrong — 
Betray'd  too  early,  and  beguil'd  too  long;  1830 

Each  feeling  pure — as  falls  die  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot;  like  that  had  hardened  too; — 


94  THE  CORSAIR. 

Less  clear,  peixhance,  its  .earthly  trials  pass'd, 

But  sunk,  and  chill'd,  and  petrified  at  last. 

Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the  rock; 

If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  shock. 

There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow, 

Though  dark  the  shade — it  sheltered, — saved  till  now. 

The  thunder  came — that  bolt  hath  blasted  both, 

The  Granite's  firmness,  and  the  Lily's  growth:  1840 

The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 

Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  wither'd  where  it  fell, 

And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 

But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground ! 

XXIV. 

'Tis  morn — to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 

Few  dare — though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 

He  was  not  there — nor  seen  along  the  shore ; 

Ere  night,  alarm'd,  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er : 

Another  morn — another  bids  them  seek, 

And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak ;  1850 

Mount — grotto — cavern — valley  search' d  in  vain, 

They  find  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain — 

Their  hope  revives — they  follow  o'er  the  main. 


THE  CORSAIR.  95 

is  idle  all — moons  roll  on  moons  away, 
And  Conrad  comes  not — came  not  since  that  day  — 
Nor  trace,  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 
Where  lives  his  grief,  or  perish'd  his  despair! 
Long  mourn'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside ; 
And  fair  the  monument  they  gave  his  bride : 
For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone —  I860 

His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  known ; 
He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
JJnk'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes. 


NOTES. 


The  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  occur- 
rences, but  the  whole  of  the  JEgean  isles  are  within  a  few 
hours  sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  reader  must  be  kind 
enough  to  take  the  ivind  as  I  have  often  found  it. 

Note  1,  page  23,  line  2. 
"  Of  fair  Olympia  lotfd  and  left  of  old. 
Orlando,  Canto  10. 

Note  2,  page  2Q,  line  10. 
Around  the  waves9  phosphoric  brightness  broke; 
By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  stroke  of 
the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by  a 
slight  flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the  water. 

Note  3,  page  33,  line  1. 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry1 's  juice, 
Coffee. 

Note  4,  page  33,  line  3. 
The  long  Chibouque's  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
Pipe. 

Note  5,  page  33,  line  4. 
While  dance  the  Almas  to  wild  minstrelsy  ; 
Dancing-girls. 

U 


y$  NOTES. 

Note  6,  page  37,  line  15. 
"  And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  laws  oppose 
The  Derrises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  orders,  as  the 
monks. 

Note  7>  page  39,  line  9. 
They  seize  that  Dervise  ! — seize  on  Zatanai  ! 
Satan. 

Note  8,  page  40,  line  8. 
He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  thejight, 
A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman  anger. 
See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  page  24.     *'  The  Seraskier 
"  received  a  wound  in  the  thigh  ;,he  plucked  up  his  beard 
"  by  the  roots,  because  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field." 

Note  9,  page  42,  line  11. 
Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare, 
Gulnare,  a  female  name  ;  it  means,  literally,  the  flower  of 
the  Pomegranate. 

Note  10,  page  53,  line  13. 
Till  even  the  scaffold  echoes  with  their  jest! 
In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaffold,  and  Anne 
Boleyn  in  the  Tower,  when  grasping  her  neck,  she  remarked, 
that  it  "was  too  slender  to  trouble  the  headsman  much." 
During  one  part  of  the  French  Revolution,  it  became  a 
fashion  to  leave  some  "  mot"  as  a  legacy;  and  the  quantity  of 
facetious  last  words  spoken  during  that  period  would  form  a 
melancholy  jest-book  of  a  considerable  size. 


NOTES.  1M> 

Note  11,  page  62,  line  12. 
That  closed  their  murder  d  sage's  latest  day  ! 
Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset  (the 
hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  dis- 
ciples to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

Note  12,  page  63,  line  4. 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign. 
The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own 
country;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of 
shorter  duration. 

Note  13,  page  63,  line  14. 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk, 

The  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house ;  the  palm  is  without, 
the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  The- 
seusi  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  intervenes. — Ce- 
phisus'  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stream  at 
all. 

Note  14,  page  64,  line  4. 

That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 
The  opening  lines  as  far  as  section  II.  have,  perhaps,  little 
business  here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpublished  (though 
printed)  poem;  but  they  were  written  on  the  spot  in  the 
Spring  of  1811,  and — I  scarce  know  why — the  reader  must 
excuse  their  appearance  here  if  he  can. 

Note  15,  page  68,  line  9. 
His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  bead*, 
The  Comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary ;  the  beads  are  in 
number  ninety-nine. 


100  NOTES. 

Note  16,  page  91,  line  i. 
And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contained, 
In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the  bo- 
dies of  the  dead,  and  in  the  hands  of  young  persons  to  place  a 
nosegay. 


POEMS. 


To  a  Lady  weeping. 

WEEP,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
A  Sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay  ; 

Ah,  happy  !  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away ! 

Weep — for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears — 
Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles; 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Repaid  thee  by  thy  people's  smiles ! 

March,  J812. 


102  POEMS. 


From  the  Turkish. 

1. 

THE  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound, 

The  heart  that  offered  both  was  true, 
And  ill  deserv'd  the  fate  it  found. 

2. 
These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell 

Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine; 
And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, 

Alas !  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

3. 
That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 

But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch ; 
That  lute  was  sweet — till  thou  could'st  think 

In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 


POEMS.  103 

4. 

Let  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver'd  in  his  grasp, 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 
Restring  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 

5. 
When  thou  wert  chang'd,  they  altered  too ; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute : 
Tis  past — to  them  and  thee  adieu — 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute. 


104  POEMS. 

SONNET. 

To  Genevra. 

THINE  eyes  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — caught 
From  contemplation — where  serenely  wrought, 

Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair- — 

Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air, 
That— but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloy'd  and  stainless  thought — 

I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 

With  such  an  aspect  by  his  colours  blent, 

When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  born, 

(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn — 

Such  seem'st  thou — but  how  much  more  excellent! 
With  nought  Remorse  can  claim — nor  Virtue  scorn. 


POEMx  105 

SONNET. 

To  Gene-era. 

THY  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  woe, 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow : — 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes— but  oh  ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow  ; 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less* 


106  POEMS. 

• 


Inscription  on  the  Monument  of  a  Newfoundland  Dog. 

WHEN  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 
The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 
And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below ; 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been : 
But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 
Who  labours,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 
Unhonour'd  falls,  unnotic'd  all  his  worth, 
Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth : 
While  man,  vain  insect !  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 
Oh  man !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 
Debas'd  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power, 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 


POEMS.  107 

Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 

Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit ! 

By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 

Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 

Ye  !  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 

Pass  on — it  honours  none  you  wish  to  mourn : 

To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise, 

I  never  knew  but  one,  and  here  he  lies. 

Newstead  Abbey,  Oct.  30,  1808. 


10S  POEMS. 


Farewell. 

FAREWELL  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  other's  weal  availed  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky, 
'Twere  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh : 

Oh !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry ; 

But  in  my  breast,  and  in  my  brain, 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel ; 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain— 

I  only  feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

THE    END. 


T.  DAV1SON,  LomoarcKlreet, 
Wbitefriars,  London. 


JJJNU 


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