Selected Poems (38 page)

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Authors: Byron

Tags: #Literary Criticism, #Poetry, #General

BOOK: Selected Poems
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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
1
rent – his caftan red –
‘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
1
carved in coarsest stone,
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!’
2

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,
3
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
4
scythe;
And from its torment ’scape alone

750

To wander round lost Eblis’
1
throne;
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
2
sent,
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
father
’s name -

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
1
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,

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