Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

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by Lord Byron


  Of firmans, imposts, levies, state.

  There’s fearful news from Danube’s banks,

  Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks

  For which the Giaour may give him thanks!

  Our Sultan hath a shorter way 460

  Such costly triumph to repay.

  But, mark me, when the twilight drum

  Hath warned the troops to food and sleep,

  Unto thy cell with Selim come;

  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;

  And if he doth, I want not steel 470

  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!

  Thou know’st I hold a Haram key.”

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

  Did words like this — — “

  “Delay not thou;

  I keep the key — and Haroun’s guard

  Have some, and hope of more reward.

  To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 480

  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 —

  The lonely hope of Sestos’ daughter.

  Oh! when alone along the sky

  Her turret-torch was blazing high,

  Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 490

  And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;

  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,

  The only star it hailed above;

  His ear but rang with Hero’s song,

  “Ye waves, divide not lovers long!” —

  That tale is old, but Love anew 500

  May nerve young hearts to prove as true.

  II.

  The winds are high and Helle’s tide

  Rolls darkly heaving to the main;

  And Night’s descending shadows hide

  That field with blood bedewed in vain,

  The desert of old Priam’s pride;

  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; 510

  These feet have pressed the sacred shore,

  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,

  And that around the undoubted scene

  Thine own “broad Hellespont” still dashes,

  Be long my lot! and cold were he

  Who there could gaze denying thee! 520

  IV.

  The Night hath closed on Helle’s stream,

  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

  Of him who felt the Dardan’s arrow:

  That mighty heap of gathered ground

  Which Ammon’s son ran proudly round,

  By nations raised, by monarchs crowned, 530

  Is now a lone and nameless barrow!

  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.

  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; 540

  The scattered lights that skirt the bay,

  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

  Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber,

  O’er which her fairy fingers ran;

  Near these, with emerald rays beset,

  (How could she thus that gem forget?) 550

  Her mother’s sainted amulet,

  Whereon engraved the Koorsee text,

  Could smooth this life, and win the next;

  And by her Comboloio lies

  A Koran of illumined dyes;

  And many a bright emblazoned rhyme

  By Persian scribes redeemed from Time;

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

  Reclines her now neglected lute;

  And round her lamp of fretted gold 560

  Bloom flowers in urns of China’s mould;

  The richest work of Iran’s loom,

  And Sheeraz tribute of perfume;

  All that can eye or sense delight

  Are gathered in that gorgeous room:

  But yet it hath an air of gloom.

  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, 570

  To guard from winds of Heaven the breast

  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,

  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? 580

  How teach her tender lips to chide?

  VII.

  They reached at length a grotto, hewn

  By nature, but enlarged by art,

  Where oft her lute she wont to tune,

  And oft her Koran conned apart;

  And oft in youthful reverie

  She dreamed what Paradise might be:

  Where Woman’s parted soul shall go

  Her Prophet had disdained to show;

  But Selim’s mansion was secure, 590

  Nor deemed she, could he long endure

  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

  Some change seemed wrought within the grot:

  It might be only that the night

  Disguised things seen by better light:

  That brazen lamp but dimly threw 600

  A ray of no celestial hue;

  But in a nook within the cell

  Her eye on stranger objects fell.

  There arms were piled, not such as wield

  The turbaned Delis in the field;

  But brands of foreign blade and hilt,

  And one was red — perchance with guilt!

  Ah! how without can blood be spilt?<
br />
  A cup too on the board was set

  That did not seem to hold sherbet. 610

  What may this mean? she turned to see

  Her Selim — “Oh! can this be he?”

  IX.

  His robe of pride was thrown aside,

  His brow no high-crowned turban bore,

  But in its stead a shawl of red,

  Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore:

  That dagger, on whose hilt the gem

  Were worthy of a diadem,

  No longer glittered at his waist,

  Where pistols unadorned were braced; 620

  And from his belt a sabre swung,

  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;

  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, 630

  All that a careless eye could see

  In him was some young Galiongée.

  X.

  “I said I was not what I seemed;

  And now thou see’st my words were true:

  I have a tale thou hast not dreamed,

  If sooth — its truth must others rue.

  My story now ‘twere vain to hide,

  I must not see thee Osman’s bride:

  But had not thine own lips declared

  How much of that young heart I shared, 640

  I could not, must not, yet have shown

  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.

  “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? 650

  Oh! thou wilt love me now no more!

  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!

  My breast is offered — take thy fill!

  Far better with the dead to be

  Than live thus nothing now to thee:

  Perhaps far worse, for now I know 660

  Why Giaffir always seemed thy foe;

  And I, alas! am Giaffir’s child,

  For whom thou wert contemned, 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:

  But, gentle love, this transport calm,

  Thy lot shall yet be linked with mine;

  I swear it by our Prophet’s shrine,

  And be that thought thy sorrow’s balm. 670

  So may the Koran verse displayed

  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,

  That tie is widened, not divided,

  Although thy Sire’s my deadliest foe.

  My father was to Giaffir all

  That Selim late was deemed to thee; 680

  That brother wrought a brother’s fall,

  But spared, at least, my infancy!

  And lulled me with a vain deceit

  That yet a like return may meet.

  He reared me, not with tender help,

  But like the nephew of a Cain;

  He watched 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 690

  No present vengeance will I take;

  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,

  It matters little if I knew;

  In fiery spirits, slights, though few

  And thoughtless, will disturb repose.

  In war Abdallah’s arm was strong, 700

  Remembered yet in Bosniac song,

  And Paswan’s rebel hordes attest

  How little love they bore such guest:

  His death is all I need relate,

  The stern effect of Giaffir’s hate;

  And how my birth disclosed to me,

  Whate’er beside it makes, hath made me free.

  XIV.

  “When Paswan, after years of strife,

  At last for power, but first for life,

  In Widdin’s walls too proudly sate, 710

  Our Pachas rallied round the state;

  Not last nor least in high command,

  Each brother led a separate band;

  They gave their Horse-tails to the wind,

  And mustering in Sophia’s plain

  Their tents were pitched, their post assigned;

  To one, alas! assigned in vain!

  What need of words? the deadly bowl,

  By Giaffir’s order drugged and given,

  With venom subtle as his soul,

  Dismissed Abdallah’s hence to heaven. 720

  Reclined and feverish in the bath,

  He, when the hunter’s sport was up,

  But little deemed a brother’s wrath

  To quench his thirst had such a cup:

  The bowl a bribed attendant bore;

  He drank one draught, nor needed more!

  If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt,

  Call Haroun — he can tell it out.

  XV.

  “The deed once done, and Paswan’s feud 730

  In part suppressed, though ne’er subdued,

  Abdallah’s Pachalick was gained: —

  Thou know’st not what in our Divan

  Can wealth procure for worse than man —

  Abdallah’s honours were obtained

  By him a brother’s murder stained;

  ‘Tis true, the purchase nearly drained

  His ill-got treasure, soon replaced.

  Would’st question whence? Survey the waste,

  And ask the squalid peasant how 740

  His gains repay his broiling brow! —

  Why me the stern Usurper spared,

  Why thus with me his palace spared,

  I know not. Shame — regret — remorse —

  And little fear from infant’s force —

  Besides, adoption as a son

  By him whom Heaven accorded none,

  Or some unknown cabal, caprice,

  Preserved me thus: — but not in peace:

  He cannot curb his haughty mood, 750

  Nor I forgive a father’s blood.

  XVI.

  “Within thy Father’s house are foes;

  Not all who break his bread are true:

  To these should I my birth disclose,

  His days-his very hours were few:

  They only want a heart to lead,

  A hand to point them to the deed.

  But Haroun only knows, or knew

  This tale, whose close is almost nigh:

  He in Abdallah’s palace grew, 760

  And held that post in his Serai

  Which holds he here — he saw him die;

  But what could sin
gle slavery do?

  Avenge his lord? alas! too late;

  Or save his son from such a fate?

  He chose the last, and when elate

  With foes subdued, or friends betrayed,

  Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate,

  He led me helpless to his gate,

  And not in vain it seems essayed 770

  To save the life for which he prayed.

  The knowledge of my birth secured

  From all and each, but most from me;

  Thus Giaffir’s safety was ensured.

  Removed he too from Roumelie

  To this our Asiatic side,

  Far from our seats by Danube’s tide,

  With none but Haroun, who retains

  Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels

  A Tyrant’s secrets are but chains, 780

  From which the captive gladly steals,

  And this and more to me reveals:

  Such still to guilt just Allah sends —

  Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends!

  XVII.

  “All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds;

  But harsher still my tale must be:

  Howe’er my tongue thy softness wounds,

  Yet I must prove all truth to thee.”

  I saw thee start this garb to see,

  Yet is it one I oft have worn, 790

  And long must wear: this Galiongée,

  To whom thy plighted vow is sworn,

  Is leader of those pirate hordes,

  Whose laws and lives are on their swords;

  To hear whose desolating tale

  Would make thy waning cheek more pale:

  Those arms thou see’st my band have brought,

  The hands that wield are not remote;

  This cup too for the rugged knaves

  Is filled — once quaffed, they ne’er repine: 800

  Our Prophet might forgive the slaves;

  They’re only infidels in wine.

  XVIII.

  “What could I be? Proscribed at home,

  And taunted to a wish to roam;

  And listless left — for Giaffir’s fear

  Denied the courser and the spear —

  Though oft — Oh, Mahomet! how oft! —

  In full Divan the despot scoffed,

  As if my weak unwilling hand

  Refused the bridle or the brand: 810

  He ever went to war alone,

  And pent me here untried — unknown;

  To Haroun’s care with women left,

  By hope unblest, of fame bereft,

  While thou — whose softness long endeared,

  Though it unmanned me, still had cheered —

  To Brusa’s walls for safety sent,

  Awaited’st there the field’s event.

  Haroun who saw my spirit pining

  Beneath inaction’s sluggish yoke, 820

  His captive, though with dread resigning,

  My thraldom for a season broke,

  On promise to return before

  The day when Giaffir’s charge was o’er.

 

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