Complete Works of Bram Stoker

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Complete Works of Bram Stoker Page 381

by Bram Stoker


  THE SHADOW BUILDER

  THE SLIM SYRENS

  THE SQUAW

  THE WAY OF PEACE

  THE WONDROUS CHILD

  UNDER THE SUNSET

  WORK’US

  The Vampire Sources

  ‘The Vampire’ by Edvard Munch

  DER VAMPIR by Heinrich Ossenfelder

  This poem was written by German poet Heinrich Ossenfelder in 1748 and it is the first recorded piece of litereature to feature a vampire.

  DER VAMPIR

  My dear young maiden clingeth

  Unbending, fast and firm

  To all the long-held teaching

  Of a mother ever true;

  As in vampires unmortal

  Folk on the Theyse’s portal

  Heyduck-like do believe.

  But my Christine thou dost dally,

  And wilt my loving parry

  Till I myself avenging

  To a vampire’s health a-drinking

  Him toast in pale tockay.

  And as softly thou art sleeping

  To thee shall I come creeping

  And thy life’s blood drain away.

  And so shalt thou be trembling

  For thus shall I be kissing

  And death’s threshold thou’ it be crossing

  With fear, in my cold arms.

  And last shall I thee question

  Compared to such instruction

  What are a mother’s charms?

  THE GIAOUR by Lord Byron

  This poem was first published in 1813 and it is one of the earliest works in English to feature a vampire. The poem proved to be a great success when published, consolidating Byron’s reputation critically and commercially. The origin of the story came during Byron’s Grand Tour during 1809 and 1810 which he undertook with his friend John Cam Hobhouse. While in Athens, he became aware of the Turkish custom of throwing a woman found guilty of adultery in the sea wrapped in a sack.

  Combat of the Giaour and the Hassan by Eugène Delacroix (1826)

  THE GIAOUR

  A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE

  BY

  LORD BYRON

  1813

  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 enterprise.

  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 ravaged 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 enterprise, 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

  No breath of air to break the wave

  That rolls below the Athenian’s grave,

  That tomb 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 blesséd isles,

  Which, seen from far Colonna’s height,

  Make glad the heart that hails the sight,

  And lend to lonliness 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:

  And if at times a transient breeze

  Break the blue crystal of the seas,

  Or sweep one blossom from the trees,

  How welcome is each gentle air

  That waves and wafts the odours there!

  For there the Rose, o’er crag or vale,

  Sultana of the Nightingale,

  The maid for whom his melody,

  His thousand songs are heard on high,

  Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale:

  His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,

  Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows,

  Far from winters of the west,

  By every breeze and season blest,

  Returns the sweets by Nature given

  In soft incense back to Heaven;

  And gratefu 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,

  And many a grotto, meant by rest,

  That holds the pirate for a guest;

  Whose bark in sheltering cove below

  Lurks for the pasiing peaceful prow,

  Till the gay mariner’s guitar

  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 turns to groan his roudelay.

  Strande — that where Nature loved to trace,

  As if for Gods, a dwelling place,

  And every charm and grace hath mixed

  Within the Paradise she fixed,

  There man, enarmoured of distress,

  Shoul mar it into wilderness,

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

  That tasks not one labourious hour;

  Nor claims the culture of his hand

  To blood along the fairy land,

  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,

  And Lust and Rapine wildly reign

  To darken o’er the fair domain.

  It is as though the Fiends prevailed

  Against the Seraphs they assailed,

  And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell

  The freed inheritors of Hell;

  So soft the scene, so formed 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,

  The last of Danger and Distress,

  (Before Decay’s effacing fingers

  Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers,)

  And marked the mild angelic air,

  The rapture of Repose that’s there,

  The fixed yet tender thraits 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,

  Where cold Obstruction’s apathy

  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,

  Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,

  He still might doubt the Tyrant’s power;

  So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

  The first, last look by Death revealed!

  Such is the aspect of his shore;

  ‘T is 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;

  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!

&nb
sp; Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

  Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

  Clime of the unforgotten brave!

  Whose land from plain to mountain-cave

  Was Freedom;s home or Glory’s grave!

  Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

  That this is all remains of thee?

  Approach, thou craven crouching slave:

  Say, is this not Thermopylæ?

  These waters blue that round you lave, —

  Of servile offspring of the free —

  Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?

  The gulf, the rock of Salamis!

  These scenes, their story yet unknown;

  Arise, and make again your own;

  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,

  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.

  Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!

  Attest it many a deathless age!

  While Kings, in dusty darkness hid,

  Have left a namesless pyramid,

  Thy Heroes, though the general doom

  Hath swept the column from their tomb,

  A mightier monument command,

  The mountains of thy native land!

  There points thy Muse to stranger’s eye

  The graves of those that cannot die!

  ‘T were long to tell, and sad to trace,

  Each step from Spledour to Disgrace;

  Enough — no foreign foe could quell

  Thy soul, till from itself it fell;

  Yet! Self-abasement paved the way

  To villain-bonds and despot sway.

  What can he tell who tread thy shore?

  No legend of thine olden time,

  No theme on which the Muse might soar

  High as thine own days of yore,

  When man was worthy of thy clime.

  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,

  Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a Slave,

  And callous, save to crime.

  Stained with each evil that pollutes

  Mankind, where least above the brutes;

  Without even savage virtue blest,

  Without one free or valiant breast,

  Still to the neighbouring ports tey waft

  Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;

  In this subtle Greek is found,

  For this, and this alown, renowned.

  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,

  And they who listen may believe,

  Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

  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 caïque,

  He shuns the near but doubtful creek:

  Though worn and weary with his toil,

  And cumbered 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 slackened bit and hoof of speed?

  Beneath the clattering iron’s sound

  The caverned echoes wake around

  In lash for lash, and bound for bound;

  The foam that streaks the courser’s side

  Seems gathered from the ocean-tide:

  Though weary waves are sunk to rest,

  There’s none within his rider’s breast;

  And though tomorrow’s tempest lower,

  ‘Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!

  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 thee and deem thee one

  Whom Othman’s sons should slay or shun.

  On - on he hastened, and he drew

  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,

  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 fixed on those that flee;

  And not a start that shines too bright

  On him who takes such timeless flight.

  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 -

  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 far tophaike,

  The flashes of each joyous peal

  Are seen to prove the Moslem’s zeal,

  Tonight, set Rhamazani’s sun;

  Tonight the Bairam feast’s begun;

  Tonight - but who and what art thou

  Of foreign garb and fearful brow?

  That thou should’st 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 hasty 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 delayed,

  Here loud his raven charger neighed -

  Down glanced that hand and, 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, away, for life he rides:

  Swift as the hurled on high jerreed

  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.

  ‘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;

  But in that instant 0’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,

  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!

  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 can 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:

  He came, he went, like the Simoom,

  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 vanished 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 harem 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.

  ‘Twas 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 coolness round

  The air, and verdure o’er the ground.

  ‘Twas 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 played

  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;

 

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