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That pale brow wildly wreathing round, And find them flown her empty nest.
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The waste of feelings unemploy'd. And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, Who would be doom'd to gaze upon But wears our garb in all beside;
A sky without a cloud or sun ? And, not from piety but pride,
Less hideous far the tempest's roar Gives wealth to walls that never heard Than ne'er to brave the billows more Of his one holy vow nor word.
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, Lomark ye, as the harmony
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, Peals louder praises to the sky,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, That livid cheek, that stony air
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;Of mix'd defiance and despair!
Better to sink beneath the shock Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! Else may we dread the wrath divine Made manifest by awful sign. If ever evil angel bore
“ Father! thy days have pass'd in peace, The form of mortal, such he wore: Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; By all my hope of sins forgiven,
To bid the sins of others cease, Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!” Thyself without a crime or care,
Save transient ills that all must bear,
Has been thy lot from youth to age; To love the softest hearts are prone, And thou wilt bless thee from the rage But such can ne'er be all his own;
Of passions fierce and uncontrollid,
Such as thy penitents unfold,
Within thy pure and pitying breast.
My days, though few, have pass'd below The rugged metal of the mine
In much of joy, but more of woe; Must burn before its surface shine,
Yet still in hours of love or strife, Bat plunged within the furnace-flame,
I've 'scaped the weariness of life : It bends and melts—though still the same; Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, Then temper'd to thy want, or will, I loathed the languor of repose. Twill serve thee to defend or kill;
Now nothing left to love or hate, A breast-plate for thine hour of need,
No more with hope or pride elate, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ;
I'd rather be the thing that crawls But if a dagger's form bear,
Most noxious o’er a dungeon's walls,
Than pass my dull, unvarying days,
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast
For rest—but not to feel 'tis rest. And what they make it, must remain,
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;
And I shall sleep witho the dream
Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : If solitude succeed to grief,
My memory now is but the tomb Release from pain is slight relief; Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: The vacant bosom's wilderness
Though better to have died with those Might thank the pang that made it less. Than bear a life of lingering woes. We loathe what none are left to share : My spirits shrunk not to sustain Even bliss—'twere woe alone to bear; The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; The heart once left thus desolate
Nor sought the self-accorded grave Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
Of ancient fool and modern kpave: It is as if the dead could feel
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet; The icy worm around them steal,
And in the field it had been sweet, And shudder, as the reptiles creep Had danger woo'd me on to move To revel o'er their rotting sleep,
The slave of glory, not of love. Without the power to scare away
I've braved it not for honour's boast : The cold consumers of their clay!
I smile at laurels won or lost;
To such let others carve their way,
And I will hunt the steps of fate,
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil;
And watch'd his spirit ebb away:
He felt not half that now I feel.
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. " I loved her, friar! nay,
adored Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace But these are words that all can use- Despair upon his dying face! I proved it more in deed than word; The late repentance of that hour, There's blood upon that dinted sword,
When Penitence hath lost her power A stain its steel can never lose:
To tear one terror from the grave, 'Twas shed for her, who died for me, And will not soothe, and can not save. It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee, Nor midst my sins such act record ;
" The cold in clime are cold in blood, Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,
Their love can scarce deserve the name; For he was hostile to thy creed !
But mine was like the lava-flood The very name of Nazarene
That boils in Aetna's breast of flame. Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. I cannot prate in puling strain Ungrateful fool! since but for brands Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : Well wielded in some hardy hands, If changing cheek, and scorching vein, And wounds by Galileans given,
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, The surest pass to Turkish heaven, If bursting heart, and mad'ning brain, For him his Houris still might wait
And daring deed, and vengeful steel, Impatient at the prophet's gate.
And all that I have felt, and feel, I loved her-love will find its way
Betoken love—that love was mine, Through paths where wolves would fear And shown by many a bitter sign.
'Tis true I could not whine nor sigh, And if it dares enough, 'twere hard
I knew but to obtain or die. If passion met not some reward
I die—but first I have possessid,
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ?
But for the thought of Leila slain,
So would I live and love again. There read of Cain the curse and crime, I grieve, but not, my holy guide! In characters unworn by time :
For him who dies, but her who died : Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ;
She sleeps beneath the wandering waveNot mine the act, though I the cause.
Ah! had she but an earthly grave, Yet did he but what I had done
This breaking heart and throbbing head Had she been false to more than one. Should seek and share her narrow bed. Faithless to him, he gave the blow; She was a form of life and light, But true to me, I laid him low :
That, seen, became a part of sight; Howe'er deserved her doom might be, And rose where'er I turn'd mine eye, Her treachery was truth to me;
The Morning-star of Memory! To me she gave her heart, that all Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall; A spark of that immortal fire And I, alas! too late to save!
With angels shared, by Alla given, Yet all I then could give, I gave,
To lift from earth our low desire. Twas some relief, our foe a grave.
Devotion wafts the mind above, His death sits lightly; but her fate But Heaven itself descends in love; Has made me—what thou well may'st hate. A feeling from the Godhead caught, His doom was seal'd— he knew it well, To wean from self each sordid thought; Warn’d by the voice of stern Taheer, A Ray of him who formd the whole; Deep in whose darkly boding ear A Glory circling round the soul! The deathshot peal'd of murder near, I grant my love imperfect, all As filed the troop to where they fell! That mortals by the name miscall; He died top in the battle-broil,
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt,
Bat say, oh say, hers was not guilt! Looks not to priesthood for relief.
My soul's estate in secret guess :
When thou canst bid my Leila live, Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Then will I sue thee to forgive; Although to death or deadliest ill! Then plead my cause in that high place Why marvel ye, if they who lose Where purchased masses proffer grace. This present joy, this future hope, Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung No more with sorrow meekly cope;
From forest-cave her shrieking young, In phrensy then their fate accuse:
And calm the lonely lioness : In madness do those fearful deeds
But soothe not-mock not my distress ! That seem to add but guilt to woe? Alas! the breast that inly bleeds
“In earlier days, and calmer hours, Hath nought to dread from outward blow; When heart with heart delights to blend, Who falls from all he knows of bliss,
Where bloom my native valley's bowers Cares little into what abyss.
I had—Ah! have I now?-a friend! Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now
To him this pledge I charge thee send, To thee, old man, my deeds appear: Memorial of a youthful vow; I read abhorrence on thy brow,
I would remind him of my end : And this too was I born to bear!
Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, With havock have I mark'd my way:
Brief thought to distant friendship’s claiia,
Yet dear to him my blighted name. But this was taught me by the dove,
'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom, To die—and know no second love.
And I have siniled-I then could smile-This lesson yet hath man to learn,
When Prudence would his voice assume, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:
And warn-I reck'd not what, the white : The bird that sings within the brake,
But now remembrance whispers o'er
Those accents scarcely mark'd before.
Say--that his bodings came to pass, And let the fool still prone to range, And he will start to hear their truth, And sneer on all who cannot change, And wish his words had not been sooth: Partake his jest with boasting boys; Tell him, unheeding as I was, I envy not his varied joys,
Through many a busy bitter scene But deem such feeble, heartless man,
Of all our golden youth had been, Less than yon solitary swan;
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried Far, far beneath the shallow maid
To bless his memory ere I died ; He left believing and betray'd.
But heaven in wrath would turn away, Sach shame at least was never mine
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. Leila! each thought was only thine! I do not ask him not to blame, My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
Too gentle he to wound my name; My hope on high-my all below.
And what have I to do with fame ? Earth holds no other like to thee,
I do not ask him not to mourn, Or if it doth, in vain for me:
Such cold request might sound. Jike scorn; For worlds I dare not view the dame
And what than friendship’s manly tear Resembling thee, yet not the same.
May better grace a brother's bier ? The very crimes that mar my youth,
But bear this ring, his own of old, This bed of death-attest my truth!
And tell him-what thou dost behold! Tis all too late-thou wert, thou art
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The cherish'd madness of my heart !
The wrack by passion left behind,
A shrivellid scroll, a scatter'd leaf, “And she was lost-and yet I breathed, Seared by the autumn-blast of grief! But not the breath of human life: à serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my very thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorr'd all place,
“Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face, No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; Where every hue that charm'd before Alas! the dreamer first must sleep. The blackness of my bosom wore. I only watch’d, and wish'd to weep; The rest thou dost already know,
But could not, for my burning brow And all my sins, and half my woe. Throbb’d to the very brain as now: But talk no more of penitence;
I wish'd but for a single tear, Thon seest I soon shall part from hence: As something welcome, new, and dear : And if thy holy tale were true,
I wish'd it then, I wish it still, The deed that's done canst thou undo? Despair is stronger than my will. Think me not thankless--but this grief Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer :
I saw him buried where he fell;
From earth; why then art thou awake ? 'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then They told me wild waves rollid above I saw her; yes, she lived again ;
The face I view, the form I love; And shining in her white symar,
They told me—'twas a hideous tale!
If true, and from thine ocean-cave
This brow that then will burn no more ; And I, before its rays appear,
Or place them on my hopeless heart : That lifeless thing the living fear. But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art, I wander, father; for my soul
In mercy ne'er again depart! Is fleeting towards the final goal.
Or farther with thee bear my soul,
Than winds can waft or waters roll!
“Such is my name, and such my tale. No breathing form within my grasp,
Confessor! to thy secret ear,
I breathe the sorrows I bewail,
Be neither name nor emblem spread,
By prying stranger to be read
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread."
Of her he loved, or him he slew.
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS,
A TURKISH TALE.
Had we never loved so kindly,
TO THE RIGHT NONOURABLE
FULLY OBLIGRD AND SINCERB FRIEND,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of LORD HOLLAND,
the turtle, THIS TALE 18 INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTI- Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? MENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATE- Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams BYRON,
ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd
with perfume, CANTO 1.
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her
bloom ; Know ye the land where the cypress and Where the citron and olive are fairest of myrtle
fruit, Aro cmblems of deeds that are done in their And the voice of the nightingale never is clime?
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues , In sooth I love not solitude;
of the sky, I on Zuleika's slumber broke,
We to the cypress-groves had flown, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?! And made earth, main, and heaven our own! Tis the clime of the east; 'tis the land of ; There lingerd we, beguiled too long
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song; Can he smile on such deeds as his children Till I, who heard the deep tambour
have done? Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell To thee and to my duty true, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales Warn’d by the sound, to greet thee flew :
which they tell. But there Zuleika wanders yet
Nay, father, rage not-nor forget Begirt with many a gallant slave,
That none can pierce that secret bower
But those who watch the women's tower." Apparellid as becomes the brave, Awaiting each his Lord's behest To guide his steps, or guard his rest, “Son of a slave”--the Pacha said Old Giaffir sate in bis Divan :
“From unbelieving mother bred, Deep thought was in his aged eye: Vain were a father's hopes to see And though the face of Mussulman Aught that beseems a man in thee. Not oft betrays to standers by
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, The mind withín, well skill'd to hide And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, All but unconquerable pride,
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, Bis pensive cheek and pondering brow Must pore where babbling waters flow, Did more than he was wont avow.
And watch unfolding roses blow.
Thy listless eyes so much admire, "Let the chamber be clear’d.”—The train would lend thee something of his fire !
Thou, who would'st see this battlement "Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.” By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; With Giaffir is none but his only son, And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. Before the dogs of Moscow fall,
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall "Haroun-when all the crowd that wait
Nor strike one stroke for life and death Are pass'd beyond the outer gate,
Against the curs of Nazareth! (Woe to the head whose eye beheld
Go, let thy less than woman's hand My child Zuleika's face unveil'd!)
Assume the distaff — not the brand. Hence, lead my daughter from her tower; But, Haroun :- to my daughter speed : Her fate is fix'd this very hour:
And hark---of thine own head take heedYet not to her repeat my thought; If thus Zuleika oft takes wingBy me alone be duty taught!”
Thou seest yon bow-it hath a string!”
*Pacha! to hear is to obey." No more must slave to despot say
No sound from Selim's lip was heard,
At least that met old Giaffir's ear,
But every frown and every word
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. First lowly rendering reverence meet; And downcast look'd, and gently spake,
“Son of a slave!- reproach'd with fear! Still standing at the Pacha's feet:
Those gibes had cost another dear.
Son of a slave!- and who my sire?" Par son of Moslem must expire,
Thus held his thoughts their dark carcer, Ere dare to sit before his sire!
And glances even of more than ire
Flash forth, then faintly disappear.
And started; for within his eye
“Come hither, boy - what, no reply? That-let the old and weary sleep-- I mark thee- and I know thee too; I could not; and to view alone
But there be deeds thou darest not do: The fairest scenes of land and deep, But if thy beard had manlier length, With none to listen and reply
And if thy hand had skill and strength, To thoughts with which my heart beat high I'd joy to see thee break a lance, Were irisome--for whate'er my mood, Albeit against my own perchance."