Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

‘Tis vain — my tongue can not impart

  My almost drunkenness of heart,

  When first this liberated eye

  Surveyed Earth — Ocean — Sun — and Sky —

  As if my Spirit pierced them through,

  And all their inmost wonders knew! 830

  One word alone can paint to thee

  That more than feeling — I was Free!

  E’en for thy presence ceased to pine;

  The World — nay, Heaven itself was mine!

  XIX.

  “The shallop of a trusty Moor

  Conveyed me from this idle shore;

  I longed to see the isles that gem

  Old Ocean’s purple diadem:

  I sought by turns, and saw them all;

  But when and where I joined the crew, 840

  With whom I’m pledged to rise or fall,

  When all that we design to do

  Is done,’twill then be time more meet

  To tell thee, when the tale’s complete.

  XX.

  “‘Tis true, they are a lawless brood,

  But rough in form, nor mild in mood;

  And every creed, and every race,

  With them hath found — may find a place:

  But open speech, and ready hand,

  Obedience to their Chief’s command; 850

  A soul for every enterprise,

  That never sees with Terror’s eyes;

  Friendship for each, and faith to all,

  And vengeance vowed for those who fall,

  Have made them fitting instruments

  For more than e’en my own intents.

  And some — and I have studied all

  Distinguished from the vulgar rank,

  But chiefly to my council call

  The wisdom of the cautious Frank: — 860

  And some to higher thoughts aspire.

  The last of Lambro’s patriots there

  Anticipated freedom share;

  And oft around the cavern fire

  On visionary schemes debate,

  To snatch the Rayahs from their fate.

  So let them ease their hearts with prate

  Of equal rights, which man ne’er knew;

  I have a love for freedom too.

  Aye! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam, 870

  Or only know on land the Tartar’s home!

  My tent on shore, my galley on the sea,

  Are more than cities and Serais to me:

  Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail,

  Across the desert, or before the gale,

  Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow!

  But be the Star that guides the wanderer, Thou!

  Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark;

  The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark!

  Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 880

  Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life!

  The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,

  And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!

  Blest — as the Muezzin’s strain from Mecca’s wall

  To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call;

  Soft — as the melody of youthful days,

  That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise;

  Dear — as his native song to Exile’s ears,

  Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears.

  For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 890

  Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour.

  A thousand swords, with Selim’s heart and hand,

  Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command!

  Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side,

  The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride.

  The Haram’s languid years of listless ease

  Are well resigned for cares — for joys like these:

  Not blind to Fate, I see, where’er I rove,

  Unnumbered perils, — but one only love!

  Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 900

  Though Fortune frown, or falser friends betray.

  How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill,

  Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still!

  Be but thy soul, like Selim’s firmly shown;

  To thee be Selim’s tender as thine own;

  To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight,

  Blend every thought, do all — but disunite!

  Once free, ‘tis mine our horde again to guide;

  Friends to each other, foes to aught beside:

  Yet there we follow but the bent assigned 910

  By fatal Nature to man’s warring kind:

  Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!

  He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace!

  I like the rest must use my skill or strength,

  But ask no land beyond my sabre’s length:

  Power sways but by division — her resource

  The blest alternative of fraud or force!

  Ours be the last; in time Deceit may come

  When cities cage us in a social home:

  There ev’n thy soul might err — how oft the heart 920

  Corruption shakes which Peril could not part!

  And Woman, more than Man, when Death or Woe,

  Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low,

  Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame —

  Away suspicion! — not Zuleika’s name!

  But life is hazard at the best; and here

  No more remains to win, and much to fear:

  Yes, fear! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee,

  By Osman’s power, and Giaffir’s stern decree.

  That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 930

  Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail:

  No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest,

  Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest.

  With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms;

  Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms!

  Aye — let the loud winds whistle o’er the deck,

  So that those arms cling closer round my neck:

  The deepest murmur of this lip shall be,

  No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee!

  The war of elements no fears impart 940

  To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art:

  There lie the only rocks our course can check;

  Here moments menace — there are years of wreck!

  But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror’s shape!

  This hour bestows, or ever bars escape.

  Few words remain of mine my tale to close;

  Of thine but one to waft us from our foes;

  Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir’s hate decline?

  And is not Osman, who would part us, thine?

  XXI.

  “His head and faith from doubt and death 950

  Returned in time my guard to save;

  Few heard, none told, that o’er the wave

  From isle to isle I roved the while:

  And since, though parted from my band

  Too seldom now I leave the land,

  No deed they’ve done, nor deed shall do,

  Ere I have heard and doomed it too:

  I form the plan — decree the spoil —

  Tis fit I oftener share the toil.

  But now too long I’ve held thine ear; 960

  Time presses — floats my bark — and here

  We leave behind but hate and fear.

  To-morrow Osman with his train

  Arrives — to-night must break thy chain:

  And would’st thou save that haughty Bey, —

  Perchance his life who gave thee thine, —

  With me this hour away — away!

  But yet, though thou
art plighted mine,

  Would’st thou recall thy willing vow,

  Appalled by truths imparted now, 970

  Here rest I — not to see thee wed:

  But be that peril on my head!”

  XXII.

  Zuleika, mute and motionless,

  Stood like that Statue of Distress,

  When, her last hope for ever gone,

  The Mother hardened into stone;

  All in the maid that eye could see

  Was but a younger Niobé.

  But ere her lip, or even her eye,

  Essayed to speak, or look reply, 980

  Beneath the garden’s wicket porch

  Far flashed on high a blazing torch!

  Another — and another — and another —

  “Oh! fly — no more — yet now my more than brother!”

  Far, wide, through every thicket spread

  The fearful lights are gleaming red;

  Nor these alone — for each right hand

  Is ready with a sheathless brand.

  They part — pursue — return, and wheel

  With searching flambeau, shining steel; 990

  And last of all, his sabre waving,

  Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:

  And now almost they touch the cave —

  Oh! must that grot be Selim’s grave?

  XXIII.

  Dauntless he stood — “‘Tis come — soon past —

  One kiss, Zuleika — ‘tis my last:

  But yet my band not far from shore

  May hear this signal, see the flash;

  Yet now too few — the attempt were rash:

  No matter — yet one effort more.” 1000

  Forth to the cavern mouth he stept;

  His pistol’s echo rang on high,

  Zuleika started not, nor wept,

  Despair benumbed her breast and eye! —

  “They hear me not, or if they ply

  Their oars,’tis but to see me die;

  That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh.

  Then forth my father’s scimitar,

  Thou ne’er hast seen less equal war!

  Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire: 1010

  Yet stay within — here linger safe,

  At thee his rage will only chafe.

  Stir not — lest even to thee perchance

  Some erring blade or ball should glance.

  Fear’st them for him? — may I expire

  If in this strife I seek thy sire!

  No — though by him that poison poured;

  No — though again he call me coward!

  But tamely shall I meet their steel?

  No — as each crest save his may feel!” 1020

  XXIV.

  One bound he made, and gained the sand:

  Already at his feet hath sunk

  The foremost of the prying band,

  A gasping head, a quivering trunk:

  Another falls — but round him close

  A swarming circle of his foes;

  From right to left his path he cleft,

  And almost met the meeting wave:

  His boat appears — not five oars’ length —

  His comrades strain with desperate strength — 1030

  Oh! are they yet in time to save?

  His feet the foremost breakers lave;

  His band are plunging in the bay,

  Their sabres glitter through the spray;

  Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand

  They struggle — now they touch the land!

  They come — ‘tis but to add to slaughter —

  His heart’s best blood is on the water.

  XXV.

  Escaped from shot, unharmed by steel,

  Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 1040

  Had Selim won, betrayed, beset,

  To where the strand and billows met;

  There as his last step left the land,

  And the last death-blow dealt his hand —

  Ah! wherefore did he turn to look

  For her his eye but sought in vain?

  That pause, that fatal gaze he took,

  Hath doomed his death, or fixed his chain.

  Sad proof, in peril and in pain,

  How late will Lover’s hope remain! 1050

  His back was to the dashing spray;

  Behind, but close, his comrades lay,

  When, at the instant, hissed the ball —

  “So may the foes of Giaffir fall!”

  Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang?

  Whose bullet through the night-air sang,

  Too nearly, deadly aimed to err?

  ‘Tis thine — Abdallah’s Murderer!

  The father slowly rued thy hate,

  The son hath found a quicker fate: 1060

  Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,

  The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling —

  If aught his lips essayed to groan,

  The rushing billows choked the tone!

  XXVI.

  Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;

  Few trophies of the fight are there:

  The shouts that shook the midnight-bay

  Are silent; but some signs of fray

  That strand of strife may bear,

  And fragments of each shivered brand; 1070

  Steps stamped; and dashed into the sand

  The print of many a struggling hand

  May there be marked; nor far remote

  A broken torch, an oarless boat;

  And tangled on the weeds that heap

  The beach where shelving to the deep

  There lies a white capote!

  ‘Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain

  The wave yet ripples o’er in vain:

  But where is he who wore? 1080

  Ye! who would o’er his relics weep,

  Go, seek them where the surges sweep

  Their burthen round Sigæum’s steep

  And cast on Lemnos’ shore:

  The sea-birds shriek above the prey,

  O’er which their hungry beaks delay,

  As shaken on his restless pillow,

  His head heaves with the heaving billow;

  That hand, whose motion is not life,

  Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 1090

  Flung by the tossing tide on high,

  Then levelled with the wave —

  What recks it, though that corse shall lie

  Within a living grave?

  The bird that tears that prostrate form

  Hath only robbed the meaner worm;

  The only heart, the only eye

  Had bled or wept to see him die,

  Had seen those scattered limbs composed,

  And mourned above his turban-stone, 1100

  That heart hath burst — that eye was closed —

  Yea — closed before his own!

  XXVII.

  By Helle’s stream there is a voice of wail!

  And Woman’s eye is wet — Man’s cheek is pale:

  Zuleika! last of Giaffir’s race,

  Thy destined lord is come too late:

  He sees not — ne’er shall see thy face!

  Can he not hear

  The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear?

  Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 1110

  The Koran-chanters of the Hymn of Fate,

  The silent slaves with folded arms that wait,

  Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale,

  Tell him thy tale!

  Thou didst not view thy Selim fall!

  That fearful moment when he left the cave

  Thy heart grew chill:

  He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all,

  And that last thought on him thou could’st not save

  Sufficed to kill; 1120

&nbs
p; Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still.

  Peace to thy broken heart — and virgin grave!

  Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst!

  That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy first!

  Thrice happy! ne’er to feel nor fear the force

  Of absence — shame — pride — hate — revenge — remorse!

  And, oh! that pang where more than Madness lies

  The Worm that will not sleep — and never dies;

  Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,

  That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 1130

  That winds around, and tears the quivering heart!

  Ah! wherefore not consume it — and depart!

  Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting Chief!

  Vainly thou heap’st the dust upon thy head,

  Vainly the sackcloth o’er thy limbs dost spread:

  By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled.

  Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief:

  Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman’s bed,

  She, whom thy Sultan had but seen to wed,

  Thy Daughter’s dead! 1140

  Hope of thine age, thy twilight’s lonely beam,

  The Star hath set that shone on Helle’s stream.

  What quenched its ray? — the blood that thou hast shed!

  Hark! to the hurried question of Despair:

  “Where is my child?” — an Echo answers — “Where?”

  XXVIII.

  Within the place of thousand tombs

  That shine beneath, while dark above

  The sad but living cypress glooms

  And withers not, though branch and leaf

  Are stamped with an eternal grief, 1150

  Like early unrequited Love,

  One spot exists, which ever blooms,

  Ev’n in that deadly grove —

  A single rose is shedding there

  Its lonely lustre, meek and pale:

  It looks as planted by Despair —

  So white — so faint — the slightest gale

  Might whirl the leaves on high;

  And yet, though storms and blight assail,

  And hands more rude than wintry sky 1160

  May wring it from the stem — in vain —

  To-morrow sees it bloom again!

  The stalk some Spirit gently rears,

  And waters with celestial tears;

  For well may maids of Helle deem

  That this can be no earthly flower,

  Which mocks the tempest’s withering hour,

  And buds unsheltered by a bower;

  Nor droops, though Spring refuse her shower,

  Nor woos the Summer beam: 1170

  To it the livelong night there sings

  A Bird unseen — but not remote:

  Invisible his airy wings,

  But soft as harp that Houri strings

  His long entrancing note!

  It were the Bulbul; but his throat,