by Byron
The lightnings of the waters flash
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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,
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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;
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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!
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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
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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!
*
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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,
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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;
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A stain on every bush that bore
A fragment of his palampore,1
His breast with wounds unnumber’d riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven,
Fall’n Hassan lies – his unclosed eye
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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. –
*****
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‘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
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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?
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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 browsing camels’ bells are tinkling:
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His Mother look’d from her lattice high,
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling
The pasture green beneath her eye,
She saw the planets faintly twinkling:
‘’ ‘Tis twilight – sure his train is nigh.’
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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:
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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;
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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,
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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;
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He drew the token from his vest –
Angel of Death! ’tis Hassan’s cloven crest!
His calpac1 rent – his caftan red –
‘Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed:
Me, not from mercy, did they spare,
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But this empurpled pledge to bear.
Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt;
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.’
*
A turban1 carved in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown,
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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
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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!’2
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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
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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,3
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
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Who falls in battle ‘gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.
*
But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir’s4 scythe;
And from its torment ’scape alone
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To wander round lost Eblis’1 throne;
And fire unquench’d, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
No ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
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But first, on earth as vampire2 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,
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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,
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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 -
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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 mus
t view
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;
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Then with unhallow’d hand shall 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,
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Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip1
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go – and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
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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,
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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,
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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;
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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
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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;
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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,
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Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.
Great largess to these walls he brought,
And thus our abbot’s favour bought;
But were I Prior, not a day
Should brook such stranger’s further stay,
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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,
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Wrong 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,
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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
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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,
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A spirit yet unquell’d and high,
That claims and keeps ascendency;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,
But cannot fly the gazing snake,
Will others quail beneath his look,
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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:
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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;
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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
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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
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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:
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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
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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,
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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;
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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
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His aspect glares within the porch;
There will be 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,
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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,
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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.
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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!
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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,
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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;
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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-f
lame,
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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;
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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,
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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
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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.
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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
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The cold consumers of their clay!
It is as if the desert-bird,1
Whose beak unlocks her bosom’s stream
To still her famish’d nestlings’ scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferr’d,
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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,
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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 -
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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
970
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
*
‘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,
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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,
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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,
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I’ve ’scaped the weariness of life: