When left to roll its folds below, | |
As midst her handmaids in the hall | |
She stood superior to them all, | |
500 | Hath swept the marble where her feet |
Gleam’d 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; | |
505 | 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 | |
510 | Along the banks that bound her tide; |
Thus rose fair Leila’s whiter neck:– | |
Thus arm’d with beauty would she check | |
Intrusion’s glance, till Folly’s gaze | |
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. | |
515 | 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 | |
520 | With twenty vassals in his train, |
Each arm’d, as best becomes a man, | |
With arquebuss and ataghan; | |
The chief before, as deck’d for war, | |
Bears in his belt the scimitar | |
525 | Stain’d with the best of Arnaut blood, |
When in the pass the rebels stood, | |
And few return’d to tell the tale | |
Of what befell in Parne’s vale. | |
The pistols which his girdle bore | |
530 | Were those that once a pasha wore, |
Which still, though gemm’d and boss’d with gold, | |
Even robbers tremble to behold. | |
‘Tis said he goes to woo a bride | |
More true than her who left his side; | |
535 | 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, | |
540 | Draw blessings from the mountaineer: |
Here may the loitering merchant Greek | |
Find that repose ’t were vain to seek | |
In cities lodged too near his lord, | |
And trembling for his secret hoard – | |
545 | 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, | |
550 | Conspicuous by his yellow cap; |
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, | |
555 | 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, | |
560 | Save shrubs that spring to perish there: |
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; | |
565 | For where is he that hath beheld |
The peak of Liakura unveil’d? | |
* * * * * | |
They reach the grove of pine at last: | |
‘Bismillah! | |
For yonder view the opening plain, | |
570 | And there we’ll prick our steeds amain:’ |
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, | |
575 | 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 unsheath’d, and carbine bent, | |
580 | Some o’er their courser’s harness leant, |
Half shelter’d by the steed; | |
Some fly behind the nearest rock, | |
And there await the coming shock, | |
Nor tamely stand to bleed | |
585 | 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 | |
590 | Proclaim too sure the robber-clan |
Have well secured the only way | |
Could now avail the promised prey; | |
Then curl’d his very beard | |
And glared his eye with fiercer fire: | |
595 | ‘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 | |
600 | Are dreaded more than hostile sword, |
Nor of his little band a man | |
Resign’d carbine or ataghan, | |
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun! | |
In fuller sight, more near and near, | |
605 | The lately ambush’d 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? | |
610 | “Tis he! ‘tis he! I know him now; |
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: | |
615 | Though now array’d 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!’ | |
620 | As rolls the river into ocean, |
In sable torrent wildly streaming; | |
As the sea-tide’s opposing motion, | |
In azure column proudly gleaming, | |
Beats back the current many a rood, | |
625 | 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 | |
630 | In awful whiteness o’er the shore, |
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, | |
635 | 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; | |
640 | The shock, the shout, the groan of war, |
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! | |
645 | 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 | |
650 | Upon the last embrace of foes, |
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 join’d till death! | |
* * * * * | |
655 | With sabre shiver’d to the hilt, |
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; | |
Yet strain’d within the sever’d hand | |
Which quivers round that faithless brand; | |
His turban far behind him roll’d, | |
660 | And cleft in twain its firmest fold; |
His flowing robe by falchion torn, | |
And crimson as those clouds of morn | |
That, streak’d with dusky red, portend | |
The day shall have a stormy end; | |
665 | A stain on every bush that bore |
A fragment of his palampore, |