Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  From infant’s play, and man’s caprice:

  The lovely toy so fiercely sought

  Hath lost its charm by being caught,

  For every touch that wooed its stay

  Hath brushed its brightest hues away,

  Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,

  ‘Tis left to fly or fall alone.

  With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 410

  Ah! where shall either victim rest?

  Can this with faded pinion soar

  From rose to tulip as before?

  Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,

  Find joy within her broken bower?

  No: gayer insects fluttering by

  Ne’er droop the wing o’er those that die,

  And lovelier things have mercy shown

  To every failing but their own,

  And every woe a tear can claim 420

  Except an erring Sister’s shame.

  The Mind, that broods o’er guilty woes,

  Is like the Scorpion girt by fire;

  In circle narrowing as it glows,

  The flames around their captive close,

  Till inly searched by thousand throes,

  And maddening in her ire,

  One sad and sole relief she knows —

  The sting she nourished for her foes,

  Whose venom never yet was vain, 430

  Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,

  And darts into her desperate brain:

  So do the dark in soul expire,

  Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;

  So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,

  Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven,

  Darkness above, despair beneath,

  Around it flame, within it death!

  Black Hassan from the Haram flies,

  Nor bends on woman’s form his eyes; 440

  The unwonted chase each hour employs,

  Yet shares he not the hunter’s joys.

  Not thus was Hassan wont to fly

  When Leila dwelt in his Serai.

  Doth Leila there no longer dwell?

  That tale can only Hassan tell:

  Strange rumours in our city say

  Upon that eve she fled away

  When Rhamazan’s last sun was set,

  And flashing from each Minaret 450

  Millions of lamps proclaimed the feast

  Of Bairam through the boundless East.

  ‘Twas then she went as to the bath,

  Which Hassan vainly searched in wrath;

  For she was flown her master’s rage

  In likeness of a Georgian page,

  And far beyond the Moslem’s power

  Had wronged him with the faithless Giaour.

  Somewhat of this had Hassan deemed;

  But still so fond, so fair she seemed, 460

  Too well he trusted to the slave

  Whose treachery deserved a grave:

  And on that eve had gone to Mosque,

  And thence to feast in his Kiosk.

  Such is the tale his Nubians tell,

  Who did not watch their charge too well;

  But others say, that on that night,

  By pale Phingari’s trembling light,

  The Giaour upon his jet-black steed

  Was seen, but seen alone to speed 470

  With bloody spur along the shore,

  Nor maid nor page behind him bore.

  Her eye’s dark charm ‘twere vain to tell,

  But gaze on that of the Gazelle,

  It will assist thy fancy well;

  As large, as languishingly dark,

  But Soul beamed forth in every spark

  That darted from beneath the lid,

  Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.

  Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 480

  That form was nought but breathing clay,

  By Alla! I would answer nay;

  Though on Al-Sirat’s arch I stood,

  Which totters o’er the fiery flood,

  With Paradise within my view,

  And all his Houris beckoning through.

  Oh! who young Leila’s glance could read

  And keep that portion of his creed

  Which saith that woman is but dust,

  A soulless toy for tyrant’s lust? 490

  On her might Muftis gaze, and own

  That through her eye the Immortal shone;

  On her fair cheek’s unfading hue

  The young pomegranate’s blossoms strew

  Their bloom in blushes ever new;

  Her hair in hyacinthine flow,

  When left to roll its folds below,

  As midst her handmaids in the hall

  She stood superior to them all,

  Hath swept the marble where her feet 500

  Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet

  Ere from the cloud that gave it birth

  It fell, and caught one stain of earth.

  The cygnet nobly walks the water;

  So moved on earth Circassia’s daughter,

  The loveliest bird of Franguestan!

  As rears her crest the ruffled Swan,

  And spurns the wave with wings of pride,

  When pass the steps of stranger man

  Along the banks that bound her tide; 510

  Thus rose fair Leila’s whiter neck: —

  Thus armed with beauty would she check

  Intrusion’s glance, till Folly’s gaze

  Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise.

  Thus high and graceful was her gait;

  Her heart as tender to her mate;

  Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he?

  Alas! that name was not for thee!

  Stern Hassan hath a journey ta’en

  With twenty vassals in his train, 520

  Each armed, as best becomes a man,

  With arquebuss and ataghan;

  The chief before, as decked for war,

  Bears in his belt the scimitar

  Stained with the best of Arnaut blood,

  When in the pass the rebels stood,

  And few returned to tell the tale

  Of what befell in Parne’s vale.

  The pistols which his girdle bore

  Were those that once a Pasha wore, 530

  Which still, though gemmed and bossed with gold,

  Even robbers tremble to behold.

  ‘Tis said he goes to woo a bride

  More true than her who left his side;

  The faithless slave that broke her bower,

  And — worse than faithless — for a Giaour!

  The sun’s last rays are on the hill,

  And sparkle in the fountain rill,

  Whose welcome waters, cool and clear,

  Draw blessings from the mountaineer: 540

  Here may the loitering merchant Greek

  Find that repose ‘twere vain to seek

  In cities lodged too near his lord,

  And trembling for his secret hoard —

  Here may he rest where none can see,

  In crowds a slave, in deserts free;

  And with forbidden wine may stain

  The bowl a Moslem must not drain

  The foremost Tartar’s in the gap

  Conspicuous by his yellow cap; 550

  The rest in lengthening line the while

  Wind slowly through the long defile:

  Above, the mountain rears a peak,

  Where vultures whet the thirsty beak,

  And theirs may be a feast to-night,

  Shall tempt them down ere morrow’s light;

  Beneath, a river’s wintry stream

  Has shrunk before the summer beam,

  And left a channel bleak and bare,

  Save shrubs that spring to perish there: 560

  Each side the midway path there lay


  Small broken crags of granite gray,

  By time, or mountain lightning, riven

  From summits clad in mists of heaven;

  For where is he that hath beheld

  The peak of Liakura unveiled?

  They reach the grove of pine at last;

  “Bismillah! now the peril’s past;

  For yonder view the opening plain,

  And there we’ll prick our steeds amain:” 570

  The Chiaus spake, and as he said,

  A bullet whistled o’er his head;

  The foremost Tartar bites the ground!

  Scarce had they time to check the rein,

  Swift from their steeds the riders bound;

  But three shall never mount again:

  Unseen the foes that gave the wound,

  The dying ask revenge in vain.

  With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent,

  Some o’er their courser’s harness leant, 580

  Half sheltered by the steed;

  Some fly beneath the nearest rock,

  And there await the coming shock,

  Nor tamely stand to bleed

  Beneath the shaft of foes unseen,

  Who dare not quit their craggy screen.

  Stern Hassan only from his horse

  Disdains to light, and keeps his course,

  Till fiery flashes in the van

  Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 590

  Have well secured the only way

  Could now avail the promised prey;

  Then curled his very beard with ire,

  And glared his eye with fiercer fire;

  “Though far and near the bullets hiss,

  I’ve scaped a bloodier hour than this.”

  And now the foe their covert quit,

  And call his vassals to submit;

  But Hassan’s frown and furious word

  Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 600

  Nor of his little band a man

  Resigned carbine or ataghan,

  Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!

  In fuller sight, more near and near,

  The lately ambushed foes appear,

  And, issuing from the grove, advance

  Some who on battle-charger prance.

  Who leads them on with foreign brand

  Far flashing in his red right hand?

  “‘Tis he!’tis he! I know him now; 610

  I know him by his pallid brow;

  I know him by the evil eye

  That aids his envious treachery;

  I know him by his jet-black barb;

  Though now arrayed in Arnaut garb,

  Apostate from his own vile faith,

  It shall not save him from the death:

  ‘Tis he! well met in any hour,

  Lost Leila’s love — accursed Giaour!”

  As rolls the river into Ocean, 620

  In sable torrent wildly streaming;

  As the sea-tide’s opposing motion,

  In azure column proudly gleaming,

  Beats back the current many a rood,

  In curling foam and mingling flood,

  While eddying whirl, and breaking wave,

  Roused by the blast of winter, rave;

  Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash,

  The lightnings of the waters flash

  In awful whiteness o’er the shore, 630

  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,

  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;

  The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 640

  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!

  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

  Upon the last embrace of foes, 650

  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 joined till death!

  With sabre shivered to the hilt,

  Yet dripping with the blood he spilt;

  Yet strained within the severed hand

  Which quivers round that faithless brand;

  His turban far behind him rolled,

  And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 660

  His flowing robe by falchion torn,

  And crimson as those clouds of morn

  That, streaked with dusky red, portend

  The day shall have a stormy end;

  A stain on every bush that bore

  A fragment of his palampore;

  His breast with wounds unnumbered riven,

  His back to earth, his face to Heaven,

  Fall’n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye

  Yet lowering on his enemy, 670

  As if the hour that sealed his fate

  Surviving left his quenchless hate;

  And o’er him bends that foe with brow

  As dark as his that bled below.

  “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 called the Prophet, but his power

  Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 680

  He called on Alla — but the word

  Arose unheeded or unheard.

  Thou Paynim fool! could Leila’s prayer

  Be passed, and thine accorded there?

  I watched my time, I leagued with these,

  The traitor in his turn to seize;

  My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done,

  And now I go — but go alone.”

  The browsing camels’ bells are tinkling:

  His mother looked from her lattice high — 690

  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.”

  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? 700

  Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now

  Has gained 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! 710

  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 w
ed:

  Me, not from mercy, did they spare,

  But this empurpled pledge to bear. 720

  Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt:

  Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.”

  A Turban 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; 730

  As ever scorned forbidden wine,

  Or prayed with face towards the shrine,

  In orisons resumed anew

  At solemn sound of “Alla Hu!”

  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, 740

  And the dark heaven of Houris’ eyes

  On him shall glance for ever bright;

  They come — their kerchiefs green they wave,

  And welcome with a kiss the brave!

  Who falls in battle ‘gainst a Giaour

  Is worthiest an immortal bower.

  But thou, false Infidel! shall writhe

  Beneath avenging Monkir’s scythe;

  And from its torments ‘scape alone

  To wander round lost Eblis’ throne; 750

  And fire unquenched, 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 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; 760

  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 withered 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 —

  That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! 770

  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 unhallowed 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 borne away by thee,

  Memorial of thine agony! 780