Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
The shadows of the rocks advancing,
Start on the fisher's eye like boat
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,
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, With slacken'd 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 Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast; And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! 7 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 scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 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 hasten'd, and he drew
My gaze of wonder as he flew :
Though like a demon of the night
He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight,
Ilis aspect and his air impress'd
A troubled memory on my breast,
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;
He winds around; he hurries by;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee;
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along; but, ere he pass'd,
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last,
A moment check'd his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood-
Why looks he o'er the olive wood?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,

The mosque's high lamps are quivering still:
Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike,8
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun:
To-night, the Bairam's feast's begun;
To-night--but who and what art thou,
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?

And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou shouldst either pause or flee?
He stood-some dread was on his face,
Soon hatred settled in its place:

It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient anger's darkening blush,
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed,
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly:
Impatient of his flight delay'd,

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd-
Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd 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, away, for life he rides;
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,9
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
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.
'T was but an instant he restrain'd
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd:

T was but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued;
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of memory seem'd 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.
Such moment pours the grief of years:
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in time's record nearly nought,
It was eternity to thought!

For infinite as boundless space
The thought that conscience must embrace,
Which in itself cau comprehend
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,
To turn a palace to a tomb:

Ile came, he went, like the simoom, 10
That harbinger of fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath
The very cypress droops to death-
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead!
The steed is vanish'd from the stall;
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;
The lonely spider's thin grey pall
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 wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,
With baffled thirst, and famine grim;

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread.
'T was sweet of yore to see it play
And chase the sultriness of day,
As, springing high, the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew,

And flung luxurious cooluess round

The air, and verdure o'er the ground.

'T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, To view the wave of watery light,

And hear its melody by night.

And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd
Around the verge of that cascade;
And oft upon his mother's breast
That sound had harmonized his rest;
And oft had Hassan's youth along
Its bank been soothed by beauty's song;
And softer seem'd each melting tone
Of music mingled with its own.
But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose
Along the brink at twilight's close:
The stream that fill'd that font is fled-
The blood that warm'd his heart is shed!
And here no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice;
The last sad note that swell'd 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:
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,

No hand shall close its clasp again.
On desert sands 't were joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow man-
So here the very voice of grief
Might wake an echo like relief;
At least 't would say, « all are not gone;
There lingers life, though but in one->>
For many a gilded chamber's there,
Which solitude might well forbear!
Within that dome as yet decay

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way-
But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate,
Nor there the fakir's self will wait;
Nor there will wandering dervise stay,
For bounty cheers not his delay;
Nor there will weary stranger halt

To bless the sacred « bread and salt.»"
Alike must wealth and poverty
Pass heedless and unheeded by,

For courtesy and pity died

With Hassan on the mountain side.

His roof, that refuge unto men,

Is desolation's hungry den.

The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour,

Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! 12

The burthen ye so gently bear,
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: Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply The nearest oar that 's scatter'd by; And midway to those rocks where sleep The channel'd waters dark and deep, Rest from your task-so-bravely done, Our course has been right swiftly run; Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, That one of

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank,
The calm wave rippled to the bank.
I watch'd it as it sank; methought
Some motion from the current caught
Bestirr'd it more,-'t was but the beam
That chequer'd o'er the living stream:
I gazed till, vanishing from view,
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,
Known but to genii of the deep,

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

As rising on its purple wing The insect-queen 16 of eastern spring, O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye: So beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wing as wild; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betray'd, Woe waits the insect and the maid; A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play, and man's caprice: The lovely toy so fiercely sought Hath lost its charm by being caught. For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, "T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 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? No: gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own,

And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame.

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,
Till, inly search'd by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,

One sad and sole relief she knows,
The sting she nourish'd for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
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,
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death!

eyes;

Black Hassan from the haram flies, Nor bends on woman's form his 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? That tale can only Hassan tell : Strange rumours in our city say Upon that eve she fled away, When Rhamazan's 18 last sun was set, And, flashing from each minaret, Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast Of Bairam through the boundless East. 'T was then she went as to the bath, Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; For she was flown her master's rage, 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, Too well he trusted to the slave

Whose treachery deserved a grave:

And on that eve had gone to mosque,
And thence to feast in his kiosk.

Such is the tale his Nubians tell,

Who did not watch their charge too well.
But others say, that on that night,
By pale Phingari's '9 trembling light,
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed
Was seen, but seen alone to speed
With bloody spur along the shore,
Nor maid nor page behind him bore.

Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell, But gaze on that of the gazelle, It will assist thy fancy well; As large, as languishingly dark, But soul beam'd forth in every spark That darted from beneath the lid, Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 20

Yea, soul, and should our prophet say
That form was nought but breathing clay,
By Alla! I would answer nay,

Though on Al-Sirat's "arch I stood,
Which totters o'er the fiery flood,
With paradise within
my view,
And all his houris beckoning through.
Oh! who young Leila's glance could read,
And keep that portion of his creed 22
Which saith that woman is but dust,
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust?
On her might muftis gaze, and own
That through her eye the Immortal shone;
On her fair cheek's unfading hue

The

young pomegranate's 23 blossoms strew Their bloom. in blushes ever new; Her hair in hyacinthine 24 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 Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, Ere from the cloud that gave it birth It fell, and caught one stain of earth. The cygnet nobly walks the water; So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, The loveliest bird of Franguestan! 25 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; Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck:Thus arm'd 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; 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,
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man,
With arquebuss and ataghan;
The chief before, as deck'd for war,
Bears in his belt the scimitar

Stain'd with the best of Arnaout blood,
When in the pass the rebels stood,
And few return'd to tell the tale

Of what befel in Parne's vale.
The pistols which his girdle bore

Were those that once a pacha wore,

Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold,
Even robbers tremble to behold.

'T is said he goes to woo a bride
More true than her who left his side;
The faithless slave that broke her bower,
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour!

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: Here may the loitering merchant Greek Find that repose 't were vain to seek

They reach the grove of pine at last: Bismillah! 26 now the peril 's past; For yonder view the opening plain, And there we 'll prick our steeds amain.>> 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; 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 coursers' harness leant,
Half shelter'd by the steed;
Some fly behind the nearest rock,
And there await the coming shock,

Nor tamely stand to bleed
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen,
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
Have well secured the only way
Could now avail the promised prey.
Then curled his very beard 27 with ire,
And glared his eye with fiercer fire:

Though far and near the bullets hiss,
I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this.»>
And now the foe their covert quit,
And call his vassals to submit:
But Hassan's frown and furious word
Are dreaded more than hostile sword,
Nor of his little band a man
Resign'd carbine or ataghan,
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun! 28

In fuller sight, more near and near,
The lately ambush'd foes appear,
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?
«T is he! 't is he! I know him now;
I know him by his pallid brow;
I know him by the evil 29
eye
That aids his envious treachery;
I know him by his jet-black barb:
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb,
Apostate from his own vile faith,
It shall not save him from the death.
"T is he! well met in any hour!
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!»>

As rolls the river into ocean, In sable torrent wildly streaming;

As the sea-tide's opposing motion,
In azure column proudly gleaming,
Beats back the current many a rood,
In curling foam and mingling flood,
While 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 awful whiteness o'er the shore,

That shines and shakes beneath the roar;
Thus 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.
The bickering sabres' shivering jar;
And pealing wide or ringing near
Its echoes on the throbbing ear,
The death-shot hissing from afar:
The shock, the shout, the groan of war,
Reverberate along that vale,

More suited to the shepherd's tale.
Though few the numbers-theirs the strife
That neither spares nor speaks for life.
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,
To seize and share the dear caress,
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,

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 join'd till death!

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand Which quivers round that faithless brand; His turban far behind him roll'd, And cleft in twain its firmest fold; His flowing robe by falchion torn, And crimson as those clouds of morn That, streak'd with dusky red, portend The day shall have a stormy end; A stain on every bush that bore A fragment of his palampore, 30

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,

His back to earth, his face to heaven,
Fall'n Hassan lies-his unclosed eye
Yet lowering on his enemy,

As if the hour that seal'd his fate
Surviving left his quenchless hate;
And o'er him bends that foe with brow
As dark as his that bled below.-

<< Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,
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:
He call'd on Alla-but the word
Arose unheeded or unheard.

Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there?
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these,
The traitor in his turn to seize;
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done,
And now I go-but go alone.>>

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 « Alla Hu!» 33
Yet died he by a stranger's hand,
And stranger in his native land;
Yet died he as in arms he stood,
And unavenged, at least in blood.
But him the maids of paradise

Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes
On him shall glance for ever bright;
They come their kerchiefs green they wave,
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.

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?
Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now

Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow,
And warily the steep descends,

And now within the valley bends;

And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow-
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:
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-
Angel of Death! 't is Hassan's cloven crest!
His calpac 3 rent-his caftan red-

«

Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed:

Me, not from mercy, did they spare,
But this empurpled pledge to bear.
Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt:
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.»

A turban 32 carved in coarsest stone, A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,

But thou, false infidel! shalt writhe Beneath avenging Monkir's 35 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 demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, most beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a father's name— That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! 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 unhallow'd hand shalt tear 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! Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 38 Thy guashing tooth and haggard lip; Then, stalking to thy sullen grave, Go--and with Gouls and Afrits rave; Till these in horror shrink away From spectre more accursed than they!