Selected Poems (45 page)

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,
²

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
was
beneath:

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;
¹

Near these, with emerald rays beset,

(How could she thus that gem forget?)

Her mother’s sainted amulet,
²

70

Whereon engraved the Koorsee text,

Could smooth this life, and win the next;

And by her comboloio
³
lies

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
her
, most beloved in this!

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.
¹

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
me
all I was before,

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
¹
verse display’d

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;
¹

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
²
rebel hordes attest

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
¹
to the wind,

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
²
nor needed more!

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,