The young, the beautiful, the brave, | |
5 | The lonely hope of Sestos‘ daughter. |
Oh! when alone along the sky | |
Her turret-torch was blazing high, | |
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, | |
And shrieking sea-birds warn’d him home; | |
10 | 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, | |
15 | The only star it hail’d above; |
His ear but rang with Hero’s song, | |
‘Ye waves, divide not lovers long!’ – | |
That tale is old, but love anew | |
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. | |
II | |
20 | The winds are high, and Helle’s tide |
Rolls darkly heaving to the main; | |
And Night’s descending shadows hide | |
That field with blood bedew’d in vain, | |
The desert of old Priam’s pride; | |
25 | 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; | |
These feet have press’d the sacred shore, | |
30 | 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, | |
35 | And that around the undoubted scene |
Thine own ‘broad Hellespont’1 still dashes, | |
Be long my lot! and cold were he | |
Who there could gaze denying thee! | |
IV | |
The night hath closed on Helle’s stream, | |
40 | 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 | |
45 | Of him who felt the Dardan’s arrow: |
That mighty heap of gather’d ground | |
Which Ammon’s son ran proudly round, | |
By nations raised, by monarchs crown’d, | |
Is now a lone and nameless barrow! | |
50 | Within – thy dwelling-place how narrow! |
Without – can only strangers breathe | |
The name of him that | |
Dust long outlasts the storied stone; | |
But Thou – thy very dust is gone! | |
V | |
55 | 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; | |
The scatter’d lights that skirt the bay, | |
60 | 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 | |
65 | 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?) | |
Her mother’s sainted amulet, | |
70 | Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, |
Could smooth this life, and win the next; | |
And by her comboloio | |
A Koran of illumined dyes; | |
And many a bright emblazon’d rhyme | |
75 | By Persian scribes redeem’d from time; |
And o’er those scrolls, not oft so mute, | |
Reclines her now neglected lute; | |
And round her lamp of fretted gold | |
Bloom flowers in urns of China’s mould; | |
80 | The richest work of Iran’s loom, |
And Sheeraz’ tribute of perfume; | |
All that can eye or sense delight | |
Are gather’d in that gorgeous room: | |
But yet it hath an air of gloom. | |
85 | 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, | |
To guard from winds of heaven the breast | |
90 | 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, | |
95 | 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? | |
How teach her tender lips to chide? |
VII | |
100 | They reach’d at length a grotto, hewn |
By nature, but enlarged by art, | |
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, | |
And oft her Koran conn’d apart; | |
And oft in youthful reverie | |
105 | She dream’d what Paradise might be: |
Where woman’s parted soul shall go | |
Her Prophet had disdain’d to show; | |
But Selim’s mansion was secure, | |
Nor deem’d she, could he long endure | |
110 | His bower in other worlds of bliss, |
Without | |
Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? | |
What Houri soothe him half so well? | |
VIII | |
Since last she visited the spot | |
115 | Some change seem’d wrought within the grot |
It might be only that the night | |
Disguised things seen by better light: | |
That brazen lamp but dimly threw | |
A ray of no celestial hue; | |
120 | But in a nook within the cell |
Her eye on stranger objects fell. | |
There arms were piled, not such as wield | |
The turban’d Delis in the field; | |
But brands of foreign blade and hilt, | |
125 | And one was red – perchance with guilt! |
Ah! how without can blood be spilt? | |
A cup too on the board was set | |
That did not seem to hold sherbet. | |
What may this mean? she turn’d to see | |
130 | Her Selim – ‘Oh! can this be he?’ |
IX | |
His robe of pride was thrown aside, | |
His brow no high-crown’d turban bore, | |
But in its stead a shawl of red, | |
Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore: | |
135 | That dagger, on whose hilt the gem |
Where worthy of a diadem, | |
No longer glitter’d at his waist, | |
Where pistols unadorn’d were braced; | |
And from his belt a sabre swung, | |
140 | 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; | |
145 | 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, | |
All that a careless eye could see | |
150 | In him was some young Galiongée. |
X | |
‘I said I was not what I seem’d; | |
And now thou see’st my words were true: | |
I have a tale thou hast not dream’d, | |
If sooth – its truth must others rue. | |
155 | My story now ‘twere vain to hide, |
I must not see thee Osman’s brid | |
But had not thine own lips declared | |
How much of that young heart I shared, | |
I could not, must not, yet have shown | |
160 | 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 | |
165 | 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? | |
Oh! thou wilt love me now no more! | |
170 | My sinking heart foreboded ill; |
But know | |
Thy sister – friend – Zuleika still. | |
Thou led’st me here perchance to kill; | |
If thou hast cause for vengeance, see! | |
175 | My breast is offer’d – take thy fill! |
Far better with the dead to be | |
Than live thus nothing now to thee: | |
Perhaps far worse, for now I know | |
Why Giaffir always seem’d thy foe; | |
180 | And I, alas! am Giaffir’s child, |
For whom thou wert contemn’d, 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: | |
185 | But, gentle love, this transport calm, |
Thy lot shall yet be link’d with mine; | |
I swear it by our Prophet’s shrine, | |
And be that thought thy sorrow’s balm. | |
So may the Koran | |
190 | 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, | |
195 | That tie is widen’d, not divided, |
Although thy Sire’s my deadliest foe. | |
My father was to Giaffir all | |
That Selim late was deem’d to thee; | |
That brother wrought a brother’s fall, | |
200 | But spared, at least, my infancy; |
And lull’d me with a vain deceit | |
That yet a like return may meet. | |
He rear’d me, not with tender help, | |
But like the nephew of a Cain; | |
205 | He watch’d 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 | |
No present vengeance will I take; | |
210 | 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, | |
215 | It matters little if I knew; |
In fiery spirits, slights, though few | |
And thoughtless, will disturb repose. | |
In war Abdallah’s arm was strong, | |
Remember’d yet in Bosniac song, | |
220 | And Paswan’s |
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, | |
225 | 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 Widin’s walls too proudly sate, | |
Our Pachas rallied round the state; | |
230 | Nor last nor least in high command, |
Each brother led a separate band; | |
They gave their horsetails | |
And mustering in Sophia’s plain | |
Their tents were pitch’d, their post assign’d; | |
235 | To one, alas! assign’d in vain! |
What need of words? the deadly bowl, | |
By Giaffir’s order drugg’d and given. | |
With venom subtle as his soul, | |
Dismiss’d Abdallah’s hence to heaven. | |
240 | Reclined and feverish in the bath, |
He, when the hunter’s sport was up, | |
But little deem’d a brother’s wrath | |
To quench his thirst had such a cup: | |
The bowl a bribed attendant bore; | |
245 | He drank one draught |
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, | |
Call Haroun – he can tell it out. | |
XV | |
‘The deed once done, and Paswan’s feud | |
In part suppress’d, though ne’er subdued, | |
250 | Abdallah’s Pachalick was gain’d: – |
Thou know’st not what in our Divan | |
Can wealth procure for worse than man – | |
Abdallah’s honours were obtain’d | |
By him a brother’s murder stain’d; | |
255 | ’Tis true, the purchase nearly drain’d |
His ill got treasure, soon replaced. | |
Would’st question whence? Survey the waste, | |
And ask the squalid peasant how | |
His gains repay his broiling brow! – | |
260 | Why me the stern usurper spared, |
Why thus with me his palace shared, | |
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, |