His breast with wounds unnumber’d riven, | |
His back to earth, his face to heaven, | |
Fall’n Hassan lies – his unclosed eye | |
670 | Yet lowering on his enemy, |
As if the hour that seal’d his fate | |
Surviving left his quenchless hate; | |
And o’er him bends that foe with brow | |
As dark as his that bled below. – | |
***** | |
675 | ‘Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, |
But his shall be a redder grave; | |
Her spirit pointed well the steel | |
Which taught that felon heart to feel. | |
He call’d the Prophet, but his power | |
680 | Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: |
He call’d on Alla - but the word | |
Arose unheeded or unheard. | |
Thou Paynim fool! could Leila’s prayer | |
Be pass’d, and thine accorded there? | |
685 | I watch’d my time, I leagued with these, |
The traitor in his turn to seize; | |
My wrath is wreak’d, the deed is done, | |
And now I go – but go alone.’ | |
* * * * * * * * * * | |
The browsing camels’ bells are tinkling: | |
690 | His Mother look’d from her lattice high, |
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling | |
The pasture green beneath her eye, | |
She saw the planets faintly twinkling: | |
‘’ ‘Tis twilight – sure his train is nigh.’ | |
695 | She could not rest in the garden-bower, |
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower: | |
‘Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, | |
Nor shrink they from the summer heat; | |
Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift: | |
700 | Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? |
Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now | |
Has gain’d our nearest mountain’s brow, | |
And warily the steep descends, | |
And now within the valley bends; | |
705 | And he bears the gift at his saddle bow – |
How could I deem his courser slow? | |
Right well my largess shall repay | |
His welcome speed, and weary way.’ | |
The Tartar lighted at the gate, | |
710 | But scarce upheld his fainting weight: |
His swarthy visage spake distress, | |
But this might be from weariness; | |
His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, | |
But these might be from his courser’s side; | |
715 | He drew the token from his vest – |
Angel of Death! ’tis Hassan’s cloven crest! | |
His calpac | |
‘Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed: | |
Me, not from mercy, did they spare, | |
720 | But this empurpled pledge to bear. |
Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt; | |
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.’ | |
* * * * * | |
A turban | |
A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown, | |
725 | Whereon can now be scarcely read |
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, | |
Point out the spot where Hassan fell | |
A victim in that lonely dell. | |
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie | |
730 | As e’er at Mecca bent the knee; |
As ever scorn’d forbidden wine, | |
Or pray’d with face towards the shrine, | |
In orisons resumed anew | |
At solemn sound of ‘Alla Hu!’ | |
735 | Yet died he by a stranger’s hand, |
And stranger in his native land; | |
Yet died he as in arms he stood, | |
And unavenged, at least in blood. | |
But him the maids of Paradise | |
740 | Impatient to their halls invite, |
And the dark Heaven of Houris’ eyes | |
On him shall glance for ever bright; | |
They come – their kerchiefs green they wave, | |
And welcome with a kiss the brave! | |
745 | Who falls in battle ‘gainst a Giaour |
Is worthiest an immortal bower. | |
* * * * * | |
But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe | |
Beneath avenging Monkir’s | |
And from its torment ’scape alone | |
750 | To wander round lost Eblis’ |
And fire unquench’d, unquenchable, | |
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; | |
No ear can hear nor tongue can tell | |
The tortures of that inward hell! | |
755 | But first, on earth as vampire |
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: | |
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, | |
And suck the blood of all thy race; | |
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, | |
760 | At midnight drain the stream of life; |
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce | |
Must feed thy livid living corse: | |
Thy victims ere they yet expire | |
Shall know the demon for their sire, | |
765 | As cursing thee, thou cursing them, |
Thy flowers are wither’d on the stem. | |
But one that for thy crime must fall, | |
The youngest, most beloved of all, | |
Shall bless thee with a | |
770 | That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! |
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark | |
Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark, | |
And the last glassy glance must view | |
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue; | |
775 | Then with unhallow’d hand shall tear |
The tresses of her yellow hair, | |
Of which in life a lock when shorn | |
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn; | |
But now is borne away by thee, | |
780 | Memorial of thine agony! |
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip | |
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; | |
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, | |
Go – and with Gouls and Afrits rave; | |
785 | Till these in horror shrink away |
From spectre more accursed than they! | |
* * * * * | |
‘How name ye yon lone Caloyer? | |
His features I have scann’d before | |
In mine own land: ’tis many a year, | |
790 | Since, dashing by the lonely shore, |
I saw him urge as fleet a steed | |
As ever served a horseman’s need. | |
But once I saw that face, yet then | |
It was so mark’d with inward pain, | |
795 | I could not pass it by again; |
It breathes the same dark spirit now, | |
As death were stamp’d upon his brow. | |
‘’Tis twice three years at summer tide | |
Since first among our freres he came; | |
800 | And here it soothes him to abide |
For some dark deed he will not name. | |
But never at our vesper prayer, | |
Nor e’er before confession chair | |
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise | |
805 | Incense or anthem to the skies, |
But broods within his cell alone, | |
His faith and race alike unknown. | |
The sea from Paynim land he crost, | |
And here ascended from the coast; | |
810 | Yet seems he not of Othman race, |
But only Christian in his face: | |
I’d judge him some stray renegade, | |
Repentant of the change he made, | |
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, | |
815 | Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. |
Great largess to these walls he brought, | |
And thus our abbot’s favour bought; | |
But were I Prior, not a day | |
Should brook such stranger’s further stay, | |
820 | Or pent within our penance cell |
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. | |
Much in his visions mutters he | |
Of maiden whelm’d beneath the sea; | |
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, | |
825 | Wrong avenged, and Moslem dying. |
On cliff he hath been known to stand, | |
And rave as to some bloody hand | |
Fresh sever’d from its parent limb, | |
Invisible to all but him, | |
830 | Which beckons onward to his grave, |