No More Learning

If not the Goblet pass unquaffed,
It is not drained to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught
That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could Oblivion set my soul
From all her troubled visions free,
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drowned a single thought of thee.

4.

For wert thou vanished from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn?
And who would then remain behind
To honour thine abandoned Urn?
No, no--it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil;
Though all the world forget beside,
'Tis meet that I remember still.

5.

For well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him, who now
Unmourned shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him, but thou:
And, oh! I feel in _that_ was given
A blessing never meant for me;
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven,
For earthly Love to merit thee.

March 14, 1812.
[First published, _Childe Harold_, 1812 (Second Edition). ]



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN. [36]

1.

Ill-fated Heart! and can it be,
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
Have years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employed in vain?

2.

Yet precious seems each shattered part,
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art
A fitter emblem of _his own_.

March 16, 1812.
[First published, _Childe Harold_, 1812 (Second Edition). ]



THE CHAIN I GAVE.
FROM THE TURKISH.

1.

The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offered both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

2.

These gifts were charmed by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,--
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

3.

That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet--till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.

4.

Let him who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shivered in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

5.

When thou wert changed, they altered too;
The chain is broke, the music mute,
'Tis past--to them and thee adieu--
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

[MS. M. First published, _Corsair_, 1814 (Second Edition). ]



LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF
_THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY_. [bm]

1.

Absent or present, still to thee,
My friend, what magic spells belong!
As all can tell, who share, like me,
In turn thy converse,[37] and thy song.

2.

But when the dreaded hour shall come
By Friendship ever deemed too nigh,
And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb[38]
Shall weep that aught of thee can die,

3.

How fondly will she then repay
Thy homage offered at her shrine,
And blend, while ages roll away,
_Her_ name immortally with _thine_!

April 19, 1812.
[First published, _Poems_, 1816. ]



ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF
DRURY-LANE THEATRE,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. [39]

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,
Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourned,
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned! )
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,[40] 10
While thousands, thronged around the burning dome,
Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home,
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone[bn]
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall[bo]
Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall;
Say--shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Reared where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakespeare--worthy him and _you_? 20

Yes--it shall be--the magic of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;[bp]
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama _be_ where she hath _been_:
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell----
Indulge our honest pride, and say, _How well_!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 30
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart.
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu:
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claimed and claims--nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head, 40
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead! [bq]
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley[41] ceased to write[br]
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of _our_ ancestry as they of _theirs_;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line,
Pause--ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 50
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame--
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend--
All past reproach may present scenes refute, 60
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! [42]
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So Pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And Reason's voice be echoed back by ours!

This greeting o'er--the ancient rule obeyed,[43]
The Drama's homage by her herald paid--
Receive _our welcome_ too--whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.
The curtain rises--may our stage unfold 70
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,
Still may _we_ please--long, long may _you_ preside.

[First published, _Morning Chronicle_, Oct. 12, 1812. ]



PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS. [44]

BY DR. PLAGIARY.

_Half stolen_, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an
inarticulate voice by Master ---- at the opening of the next
new theatre. [Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of
quotation--thus "----". ]

"When energising objects men pursue,"
Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who.
A modest Monologue you here survey,
Hissed from the theatre the "other day,"
As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse,
And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse.
"Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,"
Knew you the rumpus which the Author raised;
"Nor even here your smiles would be represt,"
Knew you these lines--the badness of the best, 10
"Flame! fire! and flame! " (words borrowed from Lucretius. [45])
"Dread metaphors" which open wounds like issues!
"And sleeping pangs awake--and----But away"--
(Confound me if I know what next to say).
Lo "Hope reviving re-expands her wings,"
And Master G---- recites what Dr. Busby sings! --
"If mighty things with small we may compare,"
(Translated from the Grammar for the fair! )
Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car,"
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of "tar. " 20
"This spirit" "Wellington has shown in Spain,"
To furnish Melodrames for Drury Lane.
"Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,"
And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

"In Arts and Sciences our Isle hath shone"
(This deep discovery is mine alone).
Oh "British poesy, whose powers inspire"
My verse--or I'm a fool--and Fame's a liar,
"Thee we invoke, your Sister Arts implore"
With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much more. 30
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain
_Disgraces_, too! "inseparable train! "
"Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid"
(You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid):
"Harmonious throng" that I have kept _in petto_
Now to produce in a "divine _sestetto_"! !
"While Poesy," with these delightful doxies,
"Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes!
"Thus lifted gloriously, you'll sweep along,"
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 40
"Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play"
(For this last line George had a holiday).
"Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,"
So says the Manager, and so say I.
"But hold," you say, "this self-complacent boast;"
Is this the Poem which the public lost?
"True--true--that lowers at once our mounting pride;"
But lo;--the Papers print what you deride.
"'Tis ours to look on _you_--_you_ hold the prize,"
'Tis _twenty guineas_, as they advertise! 50
"A _double_ blessing your rewards impart"--
I wish I had them, then, with all my heart.
"Our _twofold_ feeling _owns_ its twofold cause,"
Why son and I both beg for your applause.
"When in your fostering beams you bid us live,"
My next subscription list shall say how much you give!

[First published, _Morning Chronicle_, October 23, 1812. ]



VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN. [46]

When Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought,"
His hours in whistling spent, "for want of thought,"[47]
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence:
Did modern swains, possessed of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whitened wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

[First published, 1832, vol. xvii. ]



REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE! [48]

1.

Remember thee! remember thee!
Till Lethe quench life's burning stream
Remorse and Shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

2.

Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not.
Thy husband too shall think of thee:
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou _false_ to him, thou _fiend_ to me! [49]

[First published, _Conversations of Lord Byron_, 1824. ]



TO TIME.

Time! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die--
Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed
Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee--since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.
To them be joy or rest--on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain;
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief;
It felt, but still forgot thy power:[bs]
The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour. [bt]
In joy I've sighed to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Woe;
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee--not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk--and now thou art
A blank--a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform--
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.
And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon--a nameless stone.

[MS. M. First published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition). ]



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.

1.

Ah! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.

2.

Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew,
Alas! I find them poisoned too.

3.

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

4.

A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.

5.

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.

6.

In flattering dreams I deemed thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.

7.

My light of Life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and altered eye?
My bird of Love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?

8.

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm to bid thy lover live.

9.

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults--while mine is breaking.

10.

Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.

11.

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That Joy is harbinger of Woe.

[First published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition). ]



THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. [bu][50]

1.

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
_Too well_ thou lov'st--_too soon_ thou leavest.

2.

The wholly false the _heart_ despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,[bv]
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,--
When _she_ can change who loved so truly,
It _feels_ what mine has _felt_ so newly.

3.

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doomed to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our Fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,

4.

What must they feel whom no false vision
But truest, tenderest Passion warmed?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition:
As if a dream alone had charmed?
Ah! sure such _grief_ is _Fancy's_ scheming,
And all thy _Change_ can be but _dreaming! _

[MS. M. First published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition). ]



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE. "[bw]

The "Origin of Love! "--Ah, why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?
And shouldst thou seek his _end_ to know:
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent woe;
But live until--I cease to be.

[First published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition). ]



ON THE QUOTATION,

"And my true faith can alter never,
Though thou art gone perhaps for ever. "

1.

And "thy true faith can alter never? "--
Indeed it lasted for a--week!
I know the length of Love's forever,
And just expected such a freak.
In peace we met, in peace we parted,
In peace we vowed to meet again,
And though I find thee fickle-hearted
No pang of mine shall make thee vain.

2.

One gone--'twas time to seek a second;
In sooth 'twere hard to blame thy haste.
And whatsoe'er thy love be reckoned,
At least thou hast improved in taste:
Though one was young, the next was younger,
His love was new, mine too well known--
And what might make the charm still stronger,
The youth was present, I was flown.

3.

Seven days and nights of single sorrow!
Too much for human constancy!
A fortnight past, why then to-morrow,
His turn is come to follow me:
And if each week you change a lover,
And so have acted heretofore,
Before a year or two is over
We'll form a very pretty _corps_.

4.

Adieu, fair thing! without upbraiding
I fain would take a decent leave;
Thy beauty still survives unfading,
And undeceived may long deceive.
With him unto thy bosom dearer
Enjoy the moments as they flee;
I only wish his love sincerer
Than thy young heart has been to me.

1812.
[From a MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray,
now for the first time printed. ]



REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER. [51]

1.

Remember him, whom Passion's power
Severely--deeply--vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour,
When neither fell, though both were loved. [bx]

2.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,[by]
Too much invited to be blessed:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repressed.

3.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost[bz]
But saved thee all that Conscience fears;
And blush for every pang it cost
To spare the vain remorse of years.

4.

Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Whose busy accents whisper blame,
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
And brand a nearly blighted name. [ca]

5.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now, in midnight solitude.

6.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee! [cb]

7.

Far may thy days, as heretofore,[cc]
From this our gaudy world be past!
And that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last.

8.

This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroyed might there destroy;
To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. [cd]

9.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign--such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.

10.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness--
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath passed, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.

11.

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.

12.

Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet;
Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.

13.

Still--had I loved thee less--my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

1813.
[MS. M. First published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition). ]



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. [52]

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:
My Thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the Wanderers shrink,
And _droop_ within their silent cell. [ce]

_September_, 1813.
[MS. M. first published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition). ]



SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the warm lustre of thy features--caught
From contemplation--where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair--
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought--
I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that _thou_ hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn--
Such seem'st thou--but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue scorn.

_December_ 17, 1813. [53]
[MS. M. First published, _Corsair_, 1814 (Second Edition). ]



SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,[cf]
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes--but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

_December_ 17, 1813.
[MS. M. First published, _Corsair_, 1814 (Second Edition). ]



FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

"TU MI CHAMAS"

1.

In moments to delight devoted,[54]
"My Life! " with tenderest tone, you cry;
Dear words! on which my heart had doted,
If Youth could neither fade nor die.

2.

To Death even hours like these must roll,
Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change "my Life! " into "my Soul! "
Which, like my Love, exists for ever.

[MS. M. ]

ANOTHER VERSION.

You call me still your _Life_. --Oh! change the word--
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your Soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my Love can never die.

[Stanzas 1, 2 first published, _Childe Harold_, 1814
(Seventh Edition). "Another Version," first published, 1832. ]


To

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

as a slight but most sincere token

of admiration of his genius,

respect for his character,

and gratitude for his friendship,

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED

by his obliged

and affectionate servant,

BYRON.

London, _May_, 1813.




ADVERTISEMENT.

The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon
circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because
the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the
Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when
entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in
the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a
young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed
by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back
from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the
plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to
the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all
sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.




THE GIAOUR.


No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb[55] which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff
High o'er the land he saved in vain;
When shall such Hero live again?

* * * * *

Fair clime! where every season smiles[cg]
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 10
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the eastern wave:
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odours there! 20
For there the Rose, o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,[56]
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale:
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,
By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by Nature given 30
In softest incense back to Heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
And many a shade that Love might share,
And many a grotto, meant for rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow,
Till the gay mariner's guitar[57] 40
Is heard, and seen the Evening Star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.
Strange--that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for Gods, a dwelling place,
And every charm and grace hath mixed
Within the Paradise she fixed,
There man, enamoured of distress, 50
Should mar it into wilderness,[ch]
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him--but to spare!
Strange--that where all is Peace beside,
There Passion riots in her pride,
And Lust and Rapine wildly reign 60
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the Fiends prevailed
Against the Seraphs they assailed,
And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of Hell;
So soft the scene, so formed for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o'er the dead[ci][58]
Ere the first day of Death is fled,
The first dark day of Nothingness, 70
The last of Danger and Distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of Repose that's there,[cj]
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And--but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 80
Where cold Obstruction's apathy[59]
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,[ck]
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the Tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by Death revealed! [60]
Such is the aspect of this shore; 90
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! [61]
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for Soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded Halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away! 100
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave! [62]
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,[cl]
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:[63]
Say, is not this Thermopylae? [cm]
These waters blue that round you lave,-- 110
Oh servile offspring of the free--
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your Sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires[cn]
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 120
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,[co]
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!
Attest it many a deathless age! [cp]
While Kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy Heroes, though the general doom 130
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye[cq]
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from Splendour to Disgrace;
Enough--no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yet! Self-abasement paved the way 140
To villain-bonds and despot sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the Muse might soar
High as thine own in days of yore,
When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,[cr]
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Now crawl from cradle to the Grave, 150
Slaves--nay, the bondsmen of a Slave,[64]
And callous, save to crime;
Stained with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast,
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft[cs]
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;
In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renowned. 160
In vain might Liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:
No more her sorrows I bewail,
Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

* * * * *

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
The shadows of the rocks advancing
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 170
Of island-pirate or Mainote;
And fearful for his light caique,
He shuns the near but doubtful creek:[ct]
Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumbered with his scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,
Till Port Leone's safer shore
Receives him by the lovely light
That best becomes an Eastern night.

* * * * *

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,[65] 180
With slackened bit and hoof of speed?
Beneath the clattering iron's sound
The caverned Echoes wake around
In lash for lash, and bound for bound:
The foam that streaks the courser's side
Seems gathered from the Ocean-tide:
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There's none within his rider's breast;
And though to-morrow's tempest lower,
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! [66] 190
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace
What Time shall strengthen, not efface:
Though young and pale, that sallow front
Is scathed by fiery Passion's brunt;
Though bent on earth thine evil eye,[cu]
As meteor-like thou glidest by,
Right well I view and deem thee one
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

On--on he hastened, and he drew 200
My gaze of wonder as he flew:[cv]
Though like a Demon of the night
He passed, and vanished from my sight,
His aspect and his air impressed
A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;
He winds around; he hurries by; 210
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For, well I ween, unwelcome he
Whose glance is fixed on those that flee;
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight. [cw]
He wound along; but ere he passed
One glance he snatched, as if his last,
A moment checked his wheeling steed,[67]
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood-- 220
Why looks he o'er the olive wood? [cx]
The Crescent glimmers on the hill,
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still
Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike,[68]
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun;
To-night, the Bairam feast's begun;
To-night--but who and what art thou 230
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou shouldst either pause or flee?

He stood--some dread was on his face,
Soon Hatred settled in its place:
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient Anger's hasty blush,[cy][69]
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed; 240
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly;[cz]
Impatient of his flight delayed,
Here loud his raven charger neighed--
Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade;
That sound had burst his waking dream,
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream.
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;
Away--away--for life he rides: 250
Swift as the hurled on high jerreed[70]
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more;
The crag is won, no more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.
'Twas but an instant he restrained
That fiery barb so sternly reined;[da]
'Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by Death pursued; 260
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seemed to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years:[db]
What felt _he_ then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which pondered o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date! 270
Though in Time's record nearly nought,
It was Eternity to Thought! [71]
For infinite as boundless space
The thought that Conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend
Woe without name, or hope, or end. [72]

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone:
And did he fly or fall alone? [dc]
Woe to that hour he came or went!
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 280
To turn a palace to a tomb;
He came, he went, like the Simoom,[73]
That harbinger of Fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath
The very cypress droops to death--
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead!

The steed is vanished from the stall;
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;
The lonely Spider's thin gray pall[dd] 290
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall;
The Bat builds in his Haram bower,[74]
And in the fortress of his power
The Owl usurps the beacon-tower;
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,
With baffled thirst, and famine, grim;
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread.
'Twas sweet of yore to see it play
And chase the sultriness of day, 300
As springing high the silver dew[de]
In whirls fantastically flew,
And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o'er the ground.
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,
To view the wave of watery light,
And hear its melody by night.
And oft had Hassan's Childhood played
Around the verge of that cascade;
And oft upon his mother's breast 310
That sound had harmonized his rest;
And oft had Hassan's Youth along
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song;
And softer seemed each melting tone
Of Music mingled with its own.
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose
Along the brink at Twilight's close:
The stream that filled that font is fled--
The blood that warmed his heart is shed! [df]
And here no more shall human voice 320
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice.
The last sad note that swelled the gale
Was woman's wildest funeral wail:
That quenched in silence, all is still,
But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill:
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,
No hand shall close its clasp again.
On desert sands 'twere joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow man,
So here the very voice of Grief 330
Might wake an Echo like relief--[dg]
At least 'twould say, "All are not gone;
There lingers Life, though but in one"--[dh]
For many a gilded chamber's there,
Which Solitude might well forbear;[75]
Within that dome as yet Decay
Hath slowly worked her cankering way--
But gloom is gathered o'er the gate,
Nor there the Fakir's self will wait;
Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 340
For Bounty cheers not his delay;
Nor there will weary stranger halt
To bless the sacred "bread and salt. "[di][76]
Alike must Wealth and Poverty
Pass heedless and unheeded by,
For Courtesy and Pity died
With Hassan on the mountain side.
His roof, that refuge unto men,
Is Desolation's hungry den.
The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, 350
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! [dj][77]

* * * * *

I hear the sound of coming feet,
But not a voice mine ear to greet;
More near--each turban I can scan,
And silver-sheathed ataghan;[78]
The foremost of the band is seen
An Emir by his garb of green:[79]
"Ho! who art thou? "--"This low salam[80]
Replies of Moslem faith I am. [dk]
The burthen ye so gently bear, 360
Seems one that claims your utmost care,
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight--
My humble bark would gladly wait. "[dl]

"Thou speakest sooth: thy skiff unmoor,
And waft us from the silent shore;
Nay, leave the sail still furled, and ply
The nearest oar that's scattered by,
And midway to those rocks where sleep
The channelled waters dark and deep.
Rest from your task--so--bravely done, 370
Our course has been right swiftly run;
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow,
That one of--[81] * * * "

* * * * *

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank,
The calm wave rippled to the bank;
I watched it as it sank, methought
Some motion from the current caught
Bestirred it more,--'twas but the beam
That checkered o'er the living stream:
I gazed, till vanishing from view, 380
Like lessening pebble it withdrew;
Still less and less, a speck of white
That gemmed the tide, then mocked the sight;
And all its hidden secrets sleep,
Known but to Genii of the deep,
Which, trembling in their coral caves,
They dare not whisper to the waves.

* * * * *

As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen[82] of Eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 390
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye:
So Beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild:
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betrayed,[dm] 400
Woe waits the insect and the maid;
A life of pain, the loss of peace;
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,[dn]
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;[83]
So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,[do]
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[84] 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[85] 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. [86]
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[87] 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? [88] 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[89] blossoms strew
Their bloom in blushes ever new;
Her hair in hyacinthine flow,[90]
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! [91]
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! [92]

* * * * *

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[93] unveiled?

* * * * *

They reach the grove of pine at last;
"Bismillah! [94] now the peril's past;
For yonder view the opening plain,
And there we'll prick our steeds amain:" 570
The Chiaus[95] 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[96] with ire,
And glared his eye with fiercer fire;
"Though far and near the bullets hiss,
I've scaped a bloodier hour than this.