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And lovelier things have mercy shown As large, as languishingly dark,
To every failing but their own,

But Soul beam'd forth in every spark
And every woe a tear can claim,

That darted from beneath the lid,
Except an erring sister's shame.

Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say

That form has nought but breathing clay, The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes,

By Alla! I would answer nay ; Is like the Scorpion girt by fire,

Though on Al-Sirat’s arch I stood, In circle narrowing as it glows,

Which totters o'er the fiery flood, The flames around their captive close,

With Paradise within my view, Till inly search'd by thousand throes,

And all his Houris beckoning through. And maddening in her ire,

Oh! who young Leila's glance could read One sad and sole relief she knows,

And keep that portion of his creed

Which saith that woman is but dust,
The sting shc nourish'd for her foes,
Whose venom nerer yet was vain,

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ?
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,

On her might Muftis gaze, and own And darts into her desperate brain :

That through her eye the Immortal shone; So do the dark in soul expire,

On her fair cheek's unfading hue Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;

The young pomegranate's blossoms strew So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, Their bloom in blushes ever new; Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven,

Her hair in hyacinthine-flow, Darkness above, despair beneath,

When left to roll its folds below,

As midst her handmaids in the hall
Around it flame, within it death!

She stood superior to them all,
Hath swept the marble where her feet

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain-sleet Black Hassan from the Haram flies,

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth Nor bends on woman's form his eyes :

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. The unwonted chase each hour employs,

The cygnet nobly walks the water; Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, Not thus was Hassan wont to fly

The loveliest bird of Frangucstan! When Leila dwelt in his Serai.

As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, Doth Leila there no longer dwell?

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, That tale can only Hassan tell :

When pass the steps of stranger man Strange rumours in our city say

Along the banks that bound her tide: Upon that eve she fled away

Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck; When Rhamazan's last sun was set,

Thus arm'd with beauty would she check And flashing from each minaret

Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast

Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. Or Bairam through the boundless East.

Thus high and graceful was her gait; 'Twas then she went as to the bath,

Her heart as tender to her mate; Which Hassan vainly scarch'd in wrath ; Her mate--stern Hassan, who was he? For she was flown her master's rage Alas! that name was not for thee! In likeness of a Georgian page, And far beyond the Moslem's power Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour.

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ;

With twenty vassals in his train, Bnt still so fond, so fair she scem'd,

Each arm'd, as best becomes a man,
Too well he trusted to the slave

With arquebuss and ataghan ;
Whose treachery deserved a grave: The chief before, as deck'd for war,
And on that eve had gone to mosque, Bears in his belt the scimitar
And thence to feast in his kiosk.

Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, Such is the tale his Nubians tell,

When in the pass the rebels stood, Who did not watch their charge too well ; And few return'd to tell the tale But others say, that on that night,

Of what befell in Parne's vale. By pale Phingari's trembling light,

The pistols which his girdle bore The Giaour upon his jet-black steed

Were those that once a pasha wore, Was seen, but seen alone to speed

Which still, though gemmd and boss'd With bloody spur along the shore,

with gold, Nor maid nor page behind him bore. Even robbers tremble to behold.

"Tis said he goes to woo a bride

More true than her who left his side; Her eye's dark charm 'twerc vain to tell, The faithless slave that broke her bower, Bat gaze on that of the Gazelle,

And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour! It will assist thy fancy well;

The sun's last rays are on the hill, And now the foe their covert quit,
And sparkle in the fountain-rill,

And call his vassals to submit;
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, But Hassan's frown and furious word
Draw blessings from the mountaineer: Are dreaded more than hostile sword,
Here may the loitering merchant Greek Nor of his little band a man
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek Resign'd carbine or ataghan,
In cities lodged too near his lord,

Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!
And trembling for his secret hoard – In fuller sight, more near and near,
Here may he rest where none can see, The lately ambush'd foes appear,
In crowds a slave, in deserts free; And, issuing from the grove, advance
And with forbidden wine may stain Some who on battle-charger prance.
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. Who leads them on with foreign brand,

Far flashing in his red right hand ?
“ Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now;

I know him by his pallid brow;
The foremost Tartar's in the gap, I know him by the evil eye
Conspicuous by his yellow cap;

That aids his envious treachery ; The rest in lengthening line the while

I know him by his jet-black barb: Wind slowly through the long defile:

Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, Above, the mountain rears a peak,

Apostate from his own vile faith,
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak,

It shall not save him from the death :
And theirs may be a feast to-night,
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light; Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!”

'Tis he! well met in any hour!
Beneath, a river's wintry stream
Has shrunk before the summer-beam,
And left a channel bleak and bare,

As rolls the river into ocean,
Save shrubs that spring to perish there :

In sable torrent wildly streaming ; Each side the midway-path there lay

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, Small broken crags of granite gray,

In azure column proudly gleaming, By time, or mountain-lightning, riven

Beats back the current many a rood, From summits clad in mists of heaven;

In curling foam and mingling flood, For where is he that hath beheld

While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, The peak of Liakura unveild ?

Roused by the blast of winter, rave;
Through sparkling spray, in thundering

clash,

The lightnings of the waters flash They reach the grove of pine at last:

In awful whiteness o'er the shore, “Bismillah! now the peril's past;

That shines and shakes beneath the roar : For yonder view the opening plain, Thus—as the stream and ocean greet, And there we'll prick our steeds amain :" With waves that madden as they meetThe Chiaus spake, and as he said,

Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, A bullet whistled o'er his head;

And fate, and fury, drive along. The foremnost Tartar bites the ground!

The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; Scarce had they time to check the rein,

And pealing wide or ringing near Swift from their steeds the riders bound;

Its echoes on the throbbing ear, But three shall never mount again:

The deathshot hissing from afar; Unseen the foes that gave the wound,

The shock, the shout, the groan of war, The dying ask revenge in vain.

Reverberate along that vale,
With steel unsheath'd and carbine bent,

More suited to the shepherd's tale :
Some o'er their courgers' harness leant,
Half shelter'd by the steed;

Though few the numbers—theirs the strise,

That neither spares nor speaks for life! Some fly behind the nearest rock,

Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press, And there await the coming shock

To seize and share the dear caress; Nor tamely stand to bleed

But Love itself could never pant Beneath the shaft of foes unseen,

For all that Beauty sighs to grant Who dare not quit their craggy screen. With half the fervour Hate bestows Stern Hassan only from his horse

Upon the last embrace of foes, Disdains to light, and keeps his course,

When grappling in the fight they fold Till fiery flashes in the van

Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : Proclaim too gure the robber-clan Have well secured the only way

Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith: Could now avail the promised prey;

True foes, once met, are join'd till deatb! Then curled his very beard with ire, And glared his eye with fiercer fire: • Though far and near the bullets hiss, With sahre shiver'd to the hilt. I've scaped a bloodier hour than this.” Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ;

Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand But these might be from his courser's side;
Which quivers round that faithless brand; He drew the token from his vest-
His turban far behind him rollid,

Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest!
And cleft in twain its firmest fold; His calpac rent_his caftan red-
His flowing robe by falchion torn,

Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed: And crimson as those clouds of morn Me, not from mercy, did they spare, That, streak'd with dusky red portend But this empurpled pledge to bear. The day shall have a stormy end ; Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt: A stain on every bush that bore

Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt." A fragment of his palampore, His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, His back to earth, his face to heaven,

A turban carved in coarsest stone, Fall'n Hassan lies-his unclosed eye A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, Yet lowering on his enemy,

Whereon can now be scarcely read As if the hour that seal'd his fate

The Koran-verse that mourns the dead, Surviving left his quenchless hate;

Point out the spot where Hassan fell And o'er him bends that foe with brow

A victim in that lonely dell.
As dark as his that bled below.

There sleeps as true an Osmanlie
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee;

As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, “Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, But his shall be a redder grave;

In orisons resumed anew Her spirit pointed well the steel

At solemn sound of “ Alla Hu!” Which taught that felon heart to feel. Yet died he by a stranger's hand, He call'd the Prophet, but his power And stranger in his native land; Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: Yet died he as in arms he stood, He call'd on Alla—but the word

And unavenged, at least in blood. Arose unheeded or unheard.

But him the maids of Paradise Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer Impatient to their halls invite, Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? And the dark Heaven of Houri's eyes I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, On him shall glance for ever bright; The traitor in his turn to seize;

They come—their kerchiefs green they My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done,

wave, And now I gombut go alone.”

And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.

The browzing camels' bells are tinkling:
His Mother look'd from her lattice high But thou, false Infidel ! shalt writhe
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe;
The pastures green beneath her eye, And from its torment 'scape alone
She saw the planets faintly twinkling: To wander round lost Eblis' throne;
" Tis twilight-sure his train is nigh.” And fire unquench’d, unquenchable,
She could not rest in the garden - bower, Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ;
Bat gazed through the grate of his steepest Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell

tower:

The tortures of that inward hell! " Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, But first, on earth as Vampire sent, Nor shrink they from the summer-heat; Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised Then ghastly haunt thy native place,

gift?

And suck the blood of all thy race; Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swist? There from thy daughter, sister, wife, Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now At midnight drain the stream of life; Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce And warily the steep descends,

Must feed thy livid living corse : And now within the valley bends; Thy victims ere they yet expire And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow - Shall know the dæmon for their sire, How could I deem his courser slow ? As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Right well my largess shall repay Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. His welcome speed, and weary way." But one that for thy crime must fall, The Tartar lighted at the gate,

The youngest, most beloved of all, But scarce upheld his fainting weight: Shall bless thee with a father's name His swarthy visage spake distress, That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! But this might be from weariness ; Yet inust thou end thy task, and mark His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark,

And the last glassy glance must view Dark and unearthly is the scowl
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue; That glares beneath his dusky cowl:
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear The flash of that dilating eye
The tresses of her yellow hair,

Reveals too much of times gone by;
Of which in life a lock when shorn Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Affection's fondest pledge was worn ;

Oft will his glance the gazer rue. But now is borne away by thee,

For in it lorks that nameless spell Memorial of thine agony !

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, Wet with thine own best blood shall drip A spirit yet unquell’d and high, Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; That claims and keeps ascendancy; Then stalking to thy sullen grave,

And like the bird whose pinions quake, Go-and with Gouls and Afrits rave; But cannot fly the gazing snake, Till these in horror shrink away

Will others quail beneath his look, From spectre more accursed than they! Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook.

From him the half-affrighted Friar

When met alone would fain retire, “llow name ye yon lone Caloyer ?

As if that eye and bitter smile His features I have scann'd before

Transferr'd to others fear and guile: In mine own land : 'tis many a year,

Not oft to en descendeth he,

And when he doth 'tis sad to see
Since, dashing by the lonely shore,
I saw him urge as fleet a steed

That he but mocks at Misery.
As ever served a horseman's need.

How that pale lip will curl and quirer!

Then fix once more as if for ever;
But once I saw that face, yet then
It was so mark'd with inward pain,

As if his sorrow or disdain
I could not pass it by again ;

Forbade him e'er to smile again. It breathes the same dark spirit now,

Well were it so—such ghastly mirth
As death were stamp'd upon his brow."

From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth.
But sadder still it were to trace

What once were feelings in that face : “ 'Tis twice three years at summer-tide Time hath not yet the features fix'd, Since first among our freres he came; But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; And here it soothes him to abide

And there are hues not always faded, For some dark deed he will not name. Which speak a mind not all degraded But never at our vesper-prayer,

Even by the crimes through which it waded: Nor e'er before confession-chair

The common crowd but see the gloom kneels he, nor recks he when arise Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom; Incense or anthem to the skies,

The close observer can espy But broods within his cell alone,

A noble soul, and lineage high : His faith and race alike unknown. Alas! though both bestow'd in vain, The sea from Paynim-land he crost, Which Grief could change, and Guilt could And here ascended from the coast ; Yet seems he not of Othman race,

It was no vulgar tenement But only Christian in his face:

To which such lofty gifts were lent, l'd judge him some stray renegade,

And still with little less than dread Repentant of the change he made. On such the sight is riveted. Save that he shuns our holy shrine, The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. Will scarce delay the passer by; Great largess to these walls he brought, The tower by war or tempest bent, And thus our Abbot's favour bought; While yet may frown one battlement, But were 1 Prior, not a day

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye;
Should brook such stranger's further stay, Each ivied arch and pillar lone,
Or pent within our penance-cell

Pleads haughtily for glories gone!
Should doom him there for aye to dwell.
Much in his visions mutters he

“ His floating robe around him folding, Of maiden 'whelm'd beneath the sea; Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle; Of sabres clashing, foemen flying:

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying; The rites that sanctify the pile. On cliff he hath been known to stand, But when the anthem shakes the choir, And rave as to some bloody hand

And kneel the monks, his steps retire; Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, By yonder lone and wavering torch Invisible to all but him,

His aspect glares within the porch ;
Which beckons onward to his grave, There will he pause till all is done-
And lures to leap into the wave.”

And hear the prayer, but utter none.
See—by the half-illumined wall
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall,

stain,

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That pale brow wildly wreathing round, And find them flown her empty nest.
As if the Gorgon there had bound

The keenest pangs the wretched find
The sablest of the serpent-braid

Are rapture to the dreary void, That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : The leafless desert of the mind, For he declines the convent-oath,

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, Who would be doom'd to gaze upon But wears our garb in all beside;

A sky without a cloud or sun ? And, not from piety but pride,

Less hideous far the tempest's roar Gives wealth to walls that never heard Than ne'er to brave the billows more Of his one holy vow nor word.

Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony

A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, Peals louder praises to the sky,

'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, That livid cheek, that stony air

Unseen to drop by dull decay ;Of mix'd defiance and despair!

Better to sink beneath the shock Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! Else may we dread the wrath divine Made manifest by awful sign. If ever evil angel bore

“ Father! thy days have pass'd in peace, The form of mortal, such he wore: Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; By all my hope of sins forgiven,

To bid the sins of others cease, Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!” Thyself without a crime or care,

Save transient ills that all must bear,

Has been thy lot from youth to age; To love the softest hearts are prone, And thou wilt bless thee from the rage But such can ne'er be all his own;

Of passions fierce and uncontrollid, Too timid in his woes to share,

Such as thy penitents unfold, Too meek to meet, or brave despair;

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest And sterner hearts alone may feel

Within thy pure and pitying breast. The wound that time can never heal.

My days, though few, have pass'd below The rugged metal of the mine

In much of joy, but more of woe; Must burn before its surface shine,

Yet still in hours of love or strife, But plunged within the furnacc-flame, It bends and melts—though still the same; Now leagued with friends, now girt by fues,

I've 'scaped the weariness of life : Then temper'd to thy want, or will, I loathed the languor of repose. Twill serve thee to defend or kill;

Now nothing left to love or hate, A breast-plate for thine hour of need,

No more with hope or pride elate, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ;

I'd rather be the thing that crawls But if a dagger's form it bear,

Most noxious o’er a dungeon's walls,
Let those who shape its edge, beware!

Than pass my dull, unvarying days,
Thas passion's fire, and woman's art, Condemn'd to meditate and gaze.
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;

Yet, lurks a wish within

my

breast From these its form and tone are ta’en, For rest-but not to feel 'tis rest. And what they make it, must remain,

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;
But break-before it bend again.

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

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : If solitude succeed to grief,

My memory now is but the tomb Release from pain is slight relief; Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: The vacant bosom's wilderness

Though better to have died with those Might thank the pang that made it less. Than bear a life of lingering woes. We loathe what none are left to share : My spirits shrunk not to sustain Even bligg_twere woe alone to bear; The searching throes of ceaseless pain; The heart once left thus desolate

Nor sought the self-accorded grave Must fly at last for ease-to hate.

Of ancient fool and modern knave: It is as if the dead could feel

Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; The icy worm around them steal,

And in the field it had been sweet, And shndder, as the reptiles creep Had danger woo'd me on to move To revel o'er their rotting sleep,

The slave of glory, not of love. Without the power to scare away.

I've braved it not for honour's boast: The cold consumers of their clay!

I smile at laurels won or lost;
It is as if the desert-bird,

To such let others carve their way,
Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream For high renown, or hireling-pay:
To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, But place again before my eyes
Nor mourns a life to them transferr’d, Aught that I decm a worthy prize :
Should rend her rash devoted breast, The maid 1. luve, the man I hate,

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