by Byron
The quick successive throbs convulse;
In vain from side to side he throws
290
His form, in courtship of repose;
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start
Awoke him with a sunken heart.
The turban on his hot brow press’d,
The mail weigh’d lead-like on his breast,
295
Though oft and long beneath its weight
Upon his eyes had slumber sate,
Without or couch or canopy,
Except a rougher field and sky
Than now might yield a warrior’s bed,
300
Than now along the heaven was spread.
He could not rest, he could not stay
Within his tent to wait for day,
But walk’d him forth along the sand,
Where thousand sleepers strew’d the strand.
305
What pillow’d them? and why should he
More wakeful than the humblest be,
Since more their peril, worse their toil?
And yet they fearless dream of spoil;
While he alone, where thousands pass’d
310
A night of sleep, perchance their last,
In sickly vigil wander’d on,
And envied all he gazed upon.
XIV
He felt his soul become more light
Beneath the freshness of the night.
315
Cool was the silent sky, though calm,
And bathed his brow with airy balm:
Behind, the camp – before him lay,
In many a winding creek and bay,
Lepanto’s gulf; and, on the brow
320
Of Delphi’s hill, unshaken snow,
High and eternal, such as shone
Through thousand summers brightly gone,
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime;
It will not melt, like man, to time:
325
Tyrant and slave are swept away,
Less form’d to wear before the ray;
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest,
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest,
While tower and tree are torn and rent,
330
Shines o’er its craggy battlement;
In form a peak, in height a cloud,
In texture like a hovering shroud,
Thus high by parting Freedom spread,
As from her fond abode she fled,
335
And linger’d on the spot, where long
Her prophet spirit spake in song.
Oh! still her step at moments falters
O’er wither’d fields, and ruin’d altars,
And fain would wake, in souls too broken,
340
By pointing to each glorious token:
But vain her voice, till better days
Dawn in those yet remember’d rays
Which shone upon the Persian flying,
And saw the Spartan smile in dying.
XV
345
Not mindless of these mighty times
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes;
And through this night, as on he wander’d,
And o’er the past and present ponder’d,
And thought upon the glorious dead
350
Who there in better cause had bled,
He felt how faint and feebly dim
The fame that could accrue to him,
Who cheer’d the band, and waved the sword,
A traitor in a turban’d horde;
355
And led them to the lawless siege,
Whose best success were sacrilege.
Not so had those his fancy number’d,
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber’d;
Their phalanx marshall’d on the plain,
360
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain.
They fell devoted, but undying;
The very gale their names seem’d sighing:
The waters murmur’d of their name;
The woods were peopled with their fame;
365
The silent pillar, lone and grey,
Claim’d kindred with their sacred clay;
Their spirits wrapp’d the dusky mountain,
Their memory sparkled o’er the fountain;
The meanest rill, the mightiest river
370
Roll’d mingling with their fame for ever.
Despite of every yoke she bears,
That land is glory’s still and theirs!
’Tis still a watchword to the earth:
When man would do a deed of worth
375
He points to Greece, and turns to tread,
So sanction’d, on the tyrant’s head:
He looks to her, and rushes on
Where life is lost, or freedom won.
XVI
Still by the shore Alp mutely mused,
380
And woo’d the freshness Night diffused.
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,1
Which changeless rolls eternally;
So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood,
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood;
385
And the powerless moon beholds them flow,
Heedless if she come or go:
Calm or high, in main or bay,
On their course she hath no sway.
The rock unworn its base doth bare,
390
And looks o’er the surf, but it comes not there;
And the fringe of the foam may be seen below,
On the line that it left long ages ago:
A smooth short space of yellow sand
Between it and the greener land.
395
He wander’d on, along the beach,
Till within the range of a carbine’s reach
Of the leaguer’d wall; but they saw him not,
Or how could he ’scape from the hostile shot?
Did traitors lurk in the Christians’ hold?
400
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax’d cold?
I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall
There flash’d no fire, and there hiss’d no ball,
Though he stood beneath the bastion’s frown,
That flank’d the sea-ward gate of the town;
405
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,
As his measured step on the stone below
Clank’d, as he paced it to and fro;
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall
410
Hold o’er the dead their carnival,
Gorging and growling o’er carcass and limb;
They were too busy to bark at him!
From a Tartar’s skull they had stripp’d the flesh,
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;
415
And their white tusks crunch’d o’er the whiter skull,1
As it slipp’d through their jaws, when their edge grew dull,
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,
When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed;
So well had they broken a lingering fast
420
With those who had fallen for that night’s repast.
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll’d on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band:
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear,
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,2
425
All the rest was shaven and bare.
The scalps were in the wild dog’s maw,
The hair was tangled round his jaw.
But close by the shore, on the edge of the
gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,
430
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Pick’d by the birds, on the sands of the bay.
XVII
Alp turn’d him from the sickening sight:
435
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;
But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,
Scorch’d with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
440
There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate’er be the shape in which death may lower;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,
And Honour’s eye on daring deeds!
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
445
O’er the weltering field of the tombless dead,
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there;
All regarding man as their prey,
All rejoicing in his decay.
XVIII
450
There is a temple in ruin stands,
Fashion’d by long forgotten hands;
Two or three columns, and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass o’ergrown!
Out upon Time! it will leave no more
455
Of the things to come than the things before!
Out upon Time! who for ever will leave
But enough of the past for the future to grieve
O’er that which hath been, and o’er that which must be:
What we have seen, our sons shall see;
460
Remnants of things that have pass’d away,
Fragments of stone, rear’d by creatures of clay!
XIX
He sate him down at a pillar’s base,
And pass’d his hand athwart his face;
Like one in dreary musing mood,
465
Declining was his attitude;
His head was drooping on his breast,
Fever’d, throbbing, and oppress’d;
And o’er his brow, so downward bent,
Oft his beating fingers went,
470
Hurriedly, as you may see
Your own run over the ivory key,
Ere the measured tone is taken
By the chords you would awaken.
There he sate all heavily,
475
As he heard the night-wind sigh.
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,
Sent that soft and tender moan?1
He lifted his head, and he look’d on the sea,
But it was unrippled as glass may be;
480
He look’d on the long grass – it waved not a blade;
How was that gentle sound convey’d?
He look’d to the banners – each flag lay still,
So did the leaves on Cithaæron’s hill,
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek;
485
What did that sudden sound bespeak?
He turn’d to the left – is he sure of sight?
There sate a lady, youthful and bright!
XX
He started up with more of fear
Than if an armed foe were near.
490
‘God of my fathers! what is here?
Who art thou, and wherefore sent
So near a hostile armament?’
His trembling hands refused to sign
The cross he deem’d no more divine:
495
He had resumed it in that hour,
But conscience wrung away the power.
He gazed, he saw: he knew the face
Of beauty, and the form of grace;
It was Francesca by his side,
500
The maid who might have been his bride!
The rose was yet upon her cheek,
But mellow’d with a tenderer streak:
Where was the play of her soft lips fled?
Gone was the smile that enliven’d their red.
505
The ocean’s calm within their view,
Beside her eye had less of blue;
But like that cold wave it stood still,
And its glance, though clear, was chill.
Around her form a thin robe twining,
510
Nought conceal’d her bosom shining;
Through the parting of her hair,
Floating darkly downward there,
Her rounded arm show’d white and bare:
And ere yet she made reply,
515
Once she raised her hand on high;
It was so wan, and transparent of hue,
You might have seen the moon shine through.
XXI
‘I come from my rest to him I love best,
That I may be happy, and he may be bless’d.
520
I have pass’d the guards, the gate, the wall;
Sought thee in safety through foes and all.
’Tis said the lion will turn and flee
From a maid in the pride of her purity;
And the Power on high, that can shield the good
525
Thus from the tyrant of the wood,
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well
From the hands of the leaguering infidel.
I come – and if I come in vain,
Never, oh never, we meet again!
530
Thou hast done a fearful deed
In falling away from thy father’s creed:
But dash that turban to earth, and sign
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine;
Wring the black drop from thy heart,
535
And to-morrow unites us no more to part.’
’And where should our bridal couch be spread?
In the midst of the dying and the dead?
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name.
540
None, save thou and thine, I’ve sworn,
Shall be left upon the morn:
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,
Where our hands shall be join’d, and our sorrow forgot.
There thou yet shalt be my bride,
545
When once again I’ve quell’d the pride
Of Venice; and her hated race
Have felt the arm they would debase
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those
Whom vice and envy made my foes.’
550
Upon his hand she laid her own —
Light was the touch, but it thrill’d to the bone,
And shot a chillness to his heart,
Which fix’d him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
555
He could not loose him from its hold;
But never did clasp of one so dear
Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers, long and white,
Froze through his blood by their touch that night.
560
The feverish glow of his brow was gone,
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,
As he look’d on the face, and beheld its hue,
So deeply changed from what he knew:
Fair but faint – without the ray
565
Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day;
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And
her words came forth without her breath,
And there rose not a heave o’er her bosom’s swell,
570
And there seem’d not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix’d,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix’d
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;
575
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,
Stirr’d by the breath of the wintry air,
So seen by the dying lamp’s fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;
As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
580
From the shadowy wall where their images frown;
Fearfully flitting to and fro,
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.
‘If not for love of me be given
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, –
585
Again I say – that turban tear
From off thy faithless brow, and swear
Thine injured country’s sons to spare,
Or thou art lost; and never shalt see –
Not earth – that’s past – but heaven or me.
590
If this thou dost accord, albeit
A heavy doom ’tis thine to meet,
That doom shall half absolve thy sin,
And mercy’s gate may receive thee within:
But pause one moment more, and take
595
The curse of Him thou didst forsake;
And look once more to heaven, and see
Its love for ever shut from thee.
There is a light cloud by the moon –1
’Tis passing, and will pass full soon –
600
If, by the time its vapoury sail
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,
Thy heart within thee is not changed,
Then God and man are both avenged;
Dark will thy doom be, darker still
605
Thine immortality of ill.’
Alp look’d to heaven, and saw on high
The sign she spake of in the sky;
But his heart was swollen, and turn’d aside
By deep interminable pride.
610
This first false passion of his breast
Roll’d like a torrent o’er the rest.
He sue for mercy! He dismay’d
By wild words of a timid maid!
He, wrong’d by Venice, vow to save
615
Her sons, devoted to the grave!
No – though that cloud were thunder’s worst,
And charged to crush him – let it burst!
He look’d upon it earnestly,
Without an accent of reply;
620
He watch’d it passing; it is flown:
Full on his eye the clear moon shone,
And thus he spake – ‘Whate’er my fate,
I am no changeling — ’tis too late:
The reed in storms may bow and quiver,
625
Then rise again; the tree must shiver.