Selected Poems (38 page)

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,