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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.

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.
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say
That form has nought but breathing clay,
By Alla! I would answer nay;

The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood,

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;

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
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 blossoms strew

So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, Their bloom in blushes ever new;

Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death!

Black Hassan from the Haram flies,
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes:
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 last sun was set,
And flashing from each minaret
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast
Of Bairam through the boundless East.
'Twas 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 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 hair in hyacinthine-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!
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 Arnaut blood,
When in the pass the rebels stood,
And few return'd to tell the tale
Of what befell in Parne's vale.
The pistols which his girdle bore
Were those that once a pasha wore,
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;

Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, The faithless slave that broke her bower,

But 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 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 'twere vain to seek In cities lodged too near his lord, And trembling for his secret hoardHere may he rest where none can see, 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; 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 theirs may be a feast to-night, 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: Each side the midway-path there lay Small broken crags of granite gray, By time, or mountain-lightning, riven From summits clad in mists of heaven; For where is he that hath beheld The peak of Liakura unveil'd?

They reach the grove of pine at last:
"Bismillah! 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 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!
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?
"Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now;
I know him by his pallid brow;
I know him by the evil 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:
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!"
'Tis he! well met in any hour!

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 :
With waves that madden as they meet-
Thus as the stream and ocean greet,
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 deathshot 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,

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.”

The browzing camels' bells are tinkling: His Mother look'd from her lattice highShe saw the dews of eve besprinkling The pastures 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, But gazed through the grate of his steepest

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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?
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,

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A turban carved 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 "Alla Hu!"
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 Houri's 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.

But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe; And from its torment 'scape alone To wander round lost Eblis' 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 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 dæmon 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 nameThat 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
Thy gnashing 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!

"How name ye yon lone Caloyer?
His features I have scann'd before
In mine own land: 'tis many a year,
Since, dashing by the lonely shore,
I saw him urge as fleet a steed
As ever served 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;

It breathes the same dark spirit now,
As death were stamp'd upon his brow.”

"Tis twice three years at summer-tide
Since first among our freres he came;
And here it soothes him to abide
For some dark deed he will not name.
But never at our vesper-prayer,
Nor e'er before confession-chair
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise
Incense or anthem to the skies,
But broods within his cell alone,
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,
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,
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.
Great largess to these walls he brought,
And thus our Abbot's favour bought;
But were 1 Prior, not a day
Should brook such stranger's further stay,
Or pent within our penance-cell
Should doom him there for aye to dwell.
Much in his visions mutters he

Of maiden 'whelm'd beneath the sea;
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying;
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,
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;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue.
For in it lurks that nameless spell
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
A spirit yet unquell'd and high,
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.
From him the half-affrighted Friar
When met alone would fain retire,
As if that eye and bitter smile
Transferr❜d to others fear and guile:
Not oft to smile descendeth he,
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
Forbade him e'er to smile again.
Well were it so-such ghastly mirth
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth.
But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face:
Time hath not yet the features fix'd,
But brighter traits with evil mix'd;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded:
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy

A noble soul, and lineage high:
Alas! though both bestow'd in vain,
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.
The roofless cot, decay'd 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;
Each ivied arch and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!

“His floating robe around him folding, Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ; With dread beheld, with gloom beholding The rites that sanctify the pile.

But when the anthem shakes the choir,
And kneel the monks, his steps retire;
By yonder lone and wavering torch
His aspect glares within the porch;
There will he pause till all is done--
And hear the prayer, but utter none.
See-by the half-illumined wall
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall,

That pale brow wildly wreathing round,
As if the Gorgon there had bound
The sablest of the serpent-braid
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd:
For he declines the convent-oath,
And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth,
But wears our garb in all beside;
And, not from piety but pride,

Gives wealth to walls that never heard
Of his one holy vow nor word.
Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony
Peals louder praises to the sky,
That livid cheek, that stony air
Of mix'd defiance and despair!

Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine !
Else may we dread the wrath divine
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!"

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 The wound that time can never heal. The rugged metal of the mine Must burn before its surface shine, But plunged within the furnace-flame, It bends and melts-though still the same; Then temper'd 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, Let those who shape its edge, beware! 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, 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. 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 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! It is as if the desert-bird,

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,

And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemploy'd.
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar
Than ne'er to brave the billows more-
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,
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!

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"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, Has been thy lot from youth to age; And thou wilt bless thee from the rage Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, Such as thy penitents unfold, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 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, Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, I've 'scaped the weariness of life: I loathed 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 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest-but not to feel 'tis rest. 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 Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: Though better to have died with those Than bear a life of lingering woes. My spirits shrunk not to sustain The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 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 woo'd me on to move The slave of glory, not of love. I've braved it not for honour's boast: I smile at laurels won or lost; To such let others carve their way, For high renown, or hireling-pay : But place again before my eyes Aught that I deem a worthy prize : The maid I. love, the man I hate,

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