"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 pasture green beneath her eye,

She saw the planets faintly twinkling:
"Tis twilight-
t-sure his train is nigh."

She could not rest in the garden-bower,
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?
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! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest!
His calpac 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,

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

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 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 borue 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!

38

"How name ye yon lone Caloyer?

Hs features I have scann'd before
In mine own land: 't is many a year,
Sace, dashing by the lonely shore,
Inv ham urge as fleet a steed
As ever served a horseman's need.
But once I saw that face, yet then
I was so mark'd with inward pain,
I could not pass it by again;

I 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 sever at our vesper prayer, Nor e'er before confession chair Kee's be, nor recks he when arise Incense or anthem to the skies, But broods within his cell alone, He fuch and race alike unknown. The sea from Paynim land he crost, And bere ascended from the coast; Yet seems he not of Othman race, But only Christian in his face: I't judge hum some stray renegade, Recent of the change he made, Save that he shuns our holy shrine, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. Great argess to these walls he brought, And thus our abbot's favour bought: B were I prior, not a day

Si brook such stranger's further stay,
Or, pent within our penance cell,
Sones com hun there for aye to dwell.
Mach in his visions mutters he
Of maden when'd beneath the sea;
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,
Wegs avenged, and Moslem dying.
On he hath been known to stand,
And rave as to some bloody hand
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb,
fie to all but him,

Wir beckons onward to his grave,
And ires 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,
Of will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
Aunt yet unquell'd and high,
That claims and keeps ascendancy;
And ke the bird whose pinions quake,
Bat 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 of that eye and bitter smile
Transfer'd to others fear and guile :

Not oft to smile descendeth he,
And when he doth 't is 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,
"T will serve thee to defend or kill;
A breastplate 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-'t were 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,39

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!

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,
I've 'scaped the weariness of life:

Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes,
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 't is 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,
And I will hunt the steps of fate,
To save or slay, as these require,
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;
Then let life go to him who gave:

I have not quail'd to danger's brow
When high and happy-need I now?

*

"I loved her, friar! nay, adored

But these are words that all can useI proved it more in deed than word; There's blood upon that dinted sword, A stain its steel can never lose: "I was shed for her, who died for me,

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd: 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 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.