Selected Poems

by Byron

  350

  Though sworn by one, hath bound us both.

  Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done;

  That vow hath saved more heads than one;

  But blench not thou – thy simplest tress

  Claims more from me than tenderness;

  355

  I would not wrong the slenderest hair

  That clusters round thy forehead fair,

  For all the treasures buried far

  Within the caves of Istakar.1

  This morning clouds upon me lower’d,

  360

  Reproaches on my head were shower’d,

  And Giaffir almost call’d me coward!

  Now I have motive to be brave;

  The son of his neglected slave,

  Nay, start not, ’twas the term he gave,

  365

  May show, though little apt to vaunt,

  A heart his words nor deeds can daunt.

  His son, indeed! – yet, thanks to thee,

  Perchance I am, at least shall be;

  But let our plighted secret vow

  370

  Be only known to us as now.

  I know the wretch who dares demand

  From Giaffir thy reluctant hand;

  More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul

  Holds not a Musselim’s2 control:

  375

  Was he not bred in Egripo?3

  A viler race let Israel show;

  But let that pass – to none be told

  Our oath; the rest shall time unfold.

  To me and mine leave Osman Bey;

  380

  I’ve partisans for peril’s day:

  Think not I am what I appear;

  I’ve arms, and friends, and vengeance near.’

  XIII

  ‘Think not thou art what thou appearest!

  My Selim, thou art sadly changed:

  385

  This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest;

  But now thou’rt from thyself estranged.

  My love thou surely knew’st before,

  It ne’er was less, nor can be more.

  To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay,

  390

  And hate the night I know not why,

  Save that we meet not but by day;

  With thee to live, with thee to die,

  I dare not to my hope deny:

  Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss,

  395

  Like this – and this – no more then this:

  For, Alla! sure thy lips are flame:

  What fever in thy veins is flushing?

  My own have nearly caught the same,

  At least I feel my cheek too blushing.

  400

  To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health,

  Partake, but never waste thy wealth,

  Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by,

  And lighten half thy poverty;

  Do all but close thy dying eye,

  405

  For that I could not live to try;

  To these alone my thoughts aspire:

  More can I do? or thou require?

  But, Selim, thou must answer why

  We need so much of mystery?

  410

  The cause I cannot dream nor tell,

  But be it, since thou say’st ’t is well;

  Yet what thou mean’st by ‘arms’ and ‘friends,’

  Beyond my weaker sense extends.

  I meant that Giaffir should have heard

  415

  The very vow I plighted thee;

  His wrath would not revoke my word:

  But surely he would leave me free.

  Can this fond wish seem strange in me,

  To be what I have ever been?

  420

  What other hath Zuleika seen

  From simple childhood’s earliest hour?

  What other can she seek to see

  Than thee, companion of her bower,

  The partner of her infancy?

  425

  These cherish’d thoughts with life begun,

  Say, why must I no more avow?

  What change is wrought to make me shun

  The truth; my pride, and thine till now?

  To meet the gaze of stranger’s eyes

  430

  Our law, our creed, our God denies;

  Nor shall one wandering thought of mine

  At such, our Prophet’s will, repine:

  No! happier made by that decree,

  He left me all in leaving thee.

  435

  Deep were my anguish, thus compell’d

  To wed with one I ne’er beheld:

  This wherefore should I not reveal?

  Why wilt thou urge me to conceal?

  I know the Pacha’s haughty mood

  440

  To thee hath never boded good;

  And he so often storms at nought,

  Allah! forbid that e’er he ought!

  And why, I know not, but within

  My heart concealment weighs like sin.

  445

  If then such secrecy be crime,

  And such it feels while lurking here;

  Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time,

  Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear.

  Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar,1

  My father leaves the mimic war;

  450

  I tremble now to meet his eye –

  Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?’

  XIV

  ‘Zuleika – to thy tower’s retreat

  Betake thee – Giaffir I can greet:

  455

  And now with him I fain must prate

  Of firmans, impost, levies, state.

  There’s fearful news from Danube’s banks,

  Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks,

  For which the Giaour may give him thanks!

  460

  Our Sultan hath a shorter way

  Such costly triumph to repay.

  But, mark me, when the twilight drum

  Hath warn’d the troops to food and sleep,

  Unto thy cell will Selim come:

  465

  Then softly from the Haram creep

  Where we may wander by the deep:

  Our garden-battlements are steep;

  Nor these will rash intruder climb

  To list our words, or stint our time;

  470

  And if he doth, I want not steel

  Which some have felt, and more may feel.

  Then shalt thou learn of Selim more

  Than thou hast heard or thought before:

  Trust me, Zuleika – fear not me!

  475

  Thou know’st I hold a Haram key.’

  ‘Fear thee, my Selim! ne’er till now

  Did word like this –’

  ‘Delay not thou;

  I keep the key – and Haroun’s guard

  Have some, and hope of more reward.

  480

  Tonight, Zuleika, thou shalt hear

  My tale, my purpose, and my fear:

  I am not, love! what I appear.’

  Canto the Second

  I

  The winds are high on Helle’s wave,

  As on that night of stormy water

  When Love, who sent, forgot to save

  The young, the beautiful, the brave,

  5

  The lonely hope of Sestos‘ daughter.

  Oh! when alone along the sky

  Her turret-torch was blazing high,

  Though rising gale, and breaking foam,

  And shrieking sea-birds warn’d him home;

  10

  And clouds aloft and tides below,

  With signs and sounds, forbade to go,

  He could not see, he would not hear,

  Or sound or sign foreboding fear;

  His eye but saw that light of love,

  15

  The only star it hail’d above;

  His
ear but rang with Hero’s song,

  ‘Ye waves, divide not lovers long!’ –

  That tale is old, but love anew

  May nerve young hearts to prove as true.

  II

  20

  The winds are high, and Helle’s tide

  Rolls darkly heaving to the main;

  And Night’s descending shadows hide

  That field with blood bedew’d in vain,

  The desert of old Priam’s pride;

  25

  The tombs, sole relics of his reign,

  All – save immortal dreams that could beguile

  The blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle!

  III

  Oh! yet – for there my steps have been;

  These feet have press’d the sacred shore,

  30

  These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne –

  Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn,

  To trace again those fields of yore,

  Believing every hillock green

  Contains no fabled hero’s ashes,

  35

  And that around the undoubted scene

  Thine own ‘broad Hellespont’1 still dashes,

  Be long my lot! and cold were he

  Who there could gaze denying thee!

  IV

  The night hath closed on Helle’s stream,

  40

  Nor yet hath risen on Ida’s hill

  That moon, which shone on his high theme:

  No warrior chides her peaceful beam,

  But conscious shepherds bless it still.

  Their flocks are grazing on the mound

  45

  Of him who felt the Dardan’s arrow:

  That mighty heap of gather’d ground

  Which Ammon’s son ran proudly round,2

  By nations raised, by monarchs crown’d,

  Is now a lone and nameless barrow!

  50

  Within – thy dwelling-place how narrow!

  Without – can only strangers breathe

  The name of him that was beneath:

  Dust long outlasts the storied stone;

  But Thou – thy very dust is gone!

  V

  55

  Late, late to-night will Dian cheer

  The swain, and chase the boatman’s fear:

  Till then – no beacon on the cliff

  May shape the course of struggling skiff;

  The scatter’d lights that skirt the bay,

  60

  All, one by one, have died away;

  The only lamp of this lone hour

  Is glimmering in Zuleika’s tower.

  Yes! there is light in that lone chamber,

  And o’er her silken Ottoman

  65

  Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber,

  O’er which her fairy fingers ran;1

  Near these, with emerald rays beset,

  (How could she thus that gem forget?)

  Her mother’s sainted amulet,2

  70

  Whereon engraved the Koorsee text,

  Could smooth this life, and win the next;

  And by her comboloio3 lies

  A Koran of illumined dyes;

  And many a bright emblazon’d rhyme

  75

  By Persian scribes redeem’d from time;

  And o’er those scrolls, not oft so mute,

  Reclines her now neglected lute;

  And round her lamp of fretted gold

  Bloom flowers in urns of China’s mould;

  80

  The richest work of Iran’s loom,

  And Sheeraz’ tribute of perfume;

  All that can eye or sense delight

  Are gather’d in that gorgeous room:

  But yet it hath an air of gloom.

  85

  She, of this Peri cell the sprite,

  What doth she hence, and on so rude a night?

  VI

  Wrapt in the darkest sable vest,

  Which none save noblest Moslem wear,

  To guard from winds of heaven the breast

  90

  As heaven itself to Selim dear,

  With cautious steps the thicket threading,

  And starting oft, as through the glade

  The gust its hollow moanings made,

  Till on the smoother pathway treading,

  95

  More free her timid bosom beat,

  The maid pursued her silent guide;

  And though her terror urged retreat,

  How could she quit her Selim’s side?

  How teach her tender lips to chide?

  VII

  100

  They reach’d at length a grotto, hewn

  By nature, but enlarged by art,

  Where oft her lute she wont to tune,

  And oft her Koran conn’d apart;

  And oft in youthful reverie

  105

  She dream’d what Paradise might be:

  Where woman’s parted soul shall go

  Her Prophet had disdain’d to show;

  But Selim’s mansion was secure,

  Nor deem’d she, could he long endure

  110

  His bower in other worlds of bliss,

  Without her, most beloved in this!

  Oh! who so dear with him could dwell?

  What Houri soothe him half so well?

  VIII

  Since last she visited the spot

  115

  Some change seem’d wrought within the grot

  It might be only that the night

  Disguised things seen by better light:

  That brazen lamp but dimly threw

  A ray of no celestial hue;

  120

  But in a nook within the cell

  Her eye on stranger objects fell.

  There arms were piled, not such as wield

  The turban’d Delis in the field;

  But brands of foreign blade and hilt,

  125

  And one was red – perchance with guilt!

  Ah! how without can blood be spilt?

  A cup too on the board was set

  That did not seem to hold sherbet.

  What may this mean? she turn’d to see

  130

  Her Selim – ‘Oh! can this be he?’

  IX

  His robe of pride was thrown aside,

  His brow no high-crown’d turban bore,

  But in its stead a shawl of red,

  Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore:

  135

  That dagger, on whose hilt the gem

  Where worthy of a diadem,

  No longer glitter’d at his waist,

  Where pistols unadorn’d were braced;

  And from his belt a sabre swung,

  140

  And from his shoulder loosely hung

  The cloak of white, the thin capote

  That decks the wandering Candiote;

  Beneath – his golden plated vest

  Clung like a cuirass to his breast;

  145

  The greaves below his knee that wound

  With silvery scales were sheathed and bound.

  But were it not that high command

  Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand,

  All that a careless eye could see

  150

  In him was some young Galiongée.1

  X

  ‘I said I was not what I seem’d;

  And now thou see’st my words were true:

  I have a tale thou hast not dream’d,

  If sooth – its truth must others rue.

  155

  My story now ‘twere vain to hide,

  I must not see thee Osman’s brid

  But had not thine own lips declared

  How much of that young heart I shared,

  I could not, must not, yet have shown

  160

  The darker secret of my own.

  In this I speak not now of love;


  That, let time, truth, and peril prove:

  But first – Oh! never wed another –

  Zuleika! I am not thy brother!’

  XI

  165

  Oh! not my brother! – yet unsay –

  God! am I left alone on earth

  To mourn – I dare not curse – the day

  That saw my solitary birth?

  Oh! thou wilt love me now no more!

  170

  My sinking heart foreboded ill;

  But know me all I was before,

  Thy sister – friend – Zuleika still.

  Thou led’st me here perchance to kill;

  If thou hast cause for vengeance, see!

  175

  My breast is offer’d – take thy fill!

  Far better with the dead to be

  Than live thus nothing now to thee:

  Perhaps far worse, for now I know

  Why Giaffir always seem’d thy foe;

  180

  And I, alas! am Giaffir’s child,

  For whom thou wert contemn’d, reviled.

  If not thy sister – would’st thou save

  My life, oh! bid me be thy slave!’

  XII

  ‘My slave, Zuleika! – nay, I’m thine:

  185

  But, gentle love, this transport calm,

  Thy lot shall yet be link’d with mine;

  I swear it by our Prophet’s shrine,

  And be that thought thy sorrow’s balm.

  So may the Koran1 verse display’d

  190

  Upon its steel direct my blade,

  In danger’s hour to guard us both,

  As I preserve that awful oath!

  The name in which thy heart hath prided

  Must change; but, my Zuleika, know,

  195

  That tie is widen’d, not divided,

  Although thy Sire’s my deadliest foe.

  My father was to Giaffir all

  That Selim late was deem’d to thee;

  That brother wrought a brother’s fall,

  200

  But spared, at least, my infancy;

  And lull’d me with a vain deceit

  That yet a like return may meet.

  He rear’d me, not with tender help,

  But like the nephew of a Cain;1

  205

  He watch’d me like a lion’s whelp,

  That gnaws and yet may break his chain.

  My father’s blood in every vein

  Is boiling; but for thy dear sake

  No present vengeance will I take;

  210

  Though here I must no more remain.

  But first, beloved Zuleika! hear

  How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear.

  XIII

  ‘How first their strife to rancour grew,

  If love or envy made them foes,

  215

  It matters little if I knew;

  In fiery spirits, slights, though few

  And thoughtless, will disturb repose.

  In war Abdallah’s arm was strong,

  Remember’d yet in Bosniac song,

  220

  And Paswan’s2 rebel hordes attest

  How little love they bore such guest:

  His death is all I need relate,

  The stern effect of Giaffir’s hate;