I have not quail'd to danger's brow When high and happy-need I now?

"I loved her, Friar! nay, adored

But these are words that all can use-
I proved it more in deed than word;
There's blood upon that dinted sword,
A stain its steel can never lose:
'Twas shed for her, who died for me,

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd:
Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee,
Nor 'midst my sins such act record:
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,
For he was hostile to thy creed:
The very name of Nazarene
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.
Ungrateful fool! since but for brands
Well wielded in some hardy hands,
And wounds by Galileans given,
The surest pass to Turkish heaven,
For him his Houris still might wait
Impatient at the Prophet's gate.

I loved her-love will find its way Through paths where wolves would fear to prey;

And if it dares enough, 'twere hard
If passion met not some reward--
No matter how, or where, or why,
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain
I wish she had not loved again.
She died-I dare not tell thee how:
But look-'tis written on my brow!
There read of Cain the curse and crime,
In characters unworn by time;

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause:
Not mine the act, though I the cause.
Yet did he but what I had done,
Had she been false to more than one.
Faithless to him, he gave the blow;
But true to me, I laid him low:
Howe'er deserved her doom might be,
Her treachery was truth to me;
To me she gave her heart, that all
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall;
And I, alas, too late to save!
Yet all I then could give, I gave-
'Twas some relief-our foe a grave.
His death sits lightly; but her fate
Has made me--what thou well mayest hate.
His doom was seal'd-he knew it well,
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer
Deep in whose darkly boding ear
The deathshot peal'd of murder near,

As filed the troop to where they fell!

He died too in the battle broil,

A time that heeds nor pain nor toil;

One cry to Mahomet for aid,

ne prayer to Allah all he made:

He knew and crossed me in the fray

I gazed upon him where he lay,
And watch'd his spirit ebb away:
Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel,
He felt not half that now I feel.

I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find
The workings of the wounded mind;
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse.
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace
Despair upon his dying face!

The late repentance of that hour, When Penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave, And will not soothe, and cannot save.

"The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name; But mine was like the lava flood,

That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.
I cannot prate in puling strain
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain:
If changing cheek, and scorching vein,
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,
If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain,
And daring deed, and vengeful steel,
And all that I have felt and feel,
Betoken love-that love was mine,
And shown by many a bitter sign.
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh,
I knew but to obtain or die.

I die-but first, I have possess'd,
And come what may, I have been bless'd.
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?
No-reft of all, yet undismay'd,
But for the thought of Leila slain,
Give me the pleasure with the pain,
So would I live and love again.

I grieve-but not, my holy guide,
For him who dies, but her who died!
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave-
Ah! had she but an earthly grave,
This breaking heart and throbbing head
Should seek and share her narrow bed.
She was a form of life and light,
That, seen, became a part of sight,
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye,
The Morning-star of Memory!

"Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven:
A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shared, by Allah given

To lift from earth our low desire.
Devotion wafts the mind above,
But heaven itself descends in love;
A feeling from the Godhead caught,
To wean from self each sordid thought;
A Ray of Him who form'd the whole;
A Glory circling round the soul !
I grant my love imperfect, all
That mortals by the name miscall;
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt!
She was my life's unerring light:
That quench'd, what beam shall break my
night?

Oh! would it shone to lead me still,
Although to death or deadliest ill!
Why marvel ye, if they who lose

This present joy, this future hope,
No more with sorrow meekly cope;
In frenzy then their fate accuse:
In madness do those fearful deeds
That seem to add but guilt to woe?
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

Hath nought to dread from outward blow:
Who falls from all he knows of bliss,
Cares little into what abyss.
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now

To thee, old man, my deeds appear

I read abhorrence on thy brow,
And this too was I born to bear'

'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey,
With havoc have I mark'd my way:
But this was taught me by the dove,
To die-and know no second love.
This lesson yet hath man to learn,
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn!
The bird that sings within the brake,
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.
And let the fool still prone to range,
And sneer on all who cannot change,
Partake his jest with boasting boys;
I envy not his varied joys,

But deem such feeble, heartless man,
Less than yon solitary swan;
Tar, far beneath the shallow maid
He left believing and betray'd.
Such shame at least was never mine-
Leila! each thought was only thine!
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
My hope on high-my all below.
Earth holds no other like to thee,
Or, if it doth, in vain for me:

For worlds I dare not view the dame
Resembling thee, yet not the same.
The very crimes that mar my youth,
This bed of death-attest my truth!
'Tis all too late-thou wert, thou art
The cherish'd madness of my heart!
"And she was lost-and yet I breathed,
But not the breath of human life;
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place;
Shuddering, I shrank from Nature's face,
Where every hue that charm'd before,
The blackness of my bosom wore.
The rest thou dost already know,
And all my sins, and half my woe.
But talk no more of penitence;

Thou seest I soon shall part from hence:
And if thy holy tale were true,

The deed that's done, canst thou undo?
Think me not thankless, but this grief
Looks not to priesthood for relief.
My soul's estate in secret guess:
But wouldst thou pity more, say less.
When thou canst bid my Leila live,
Then will I sue thee to forgive:
Then plead my cause in that high place
Where purchased masses proffer grace.
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung
From forest-cave her shrieking young,
And calm the lonely lioness:

But soothe not, mock not my distress!
"In earlier days, and calmer hours,

When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers, I had-ah! have I now?-a friend! To him this pledge I charge thee send, Memorial of a youthful vow:

I would remind him of my end; Though souls absorb'd like mine allow Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, Yet dear to him my blighted name. 'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom,

And I have smiled-I then could smileWhen Prudence would his voice assume, And warn-I reck'd not what-the while : But now remembrance whispers o'er

Those accents scarcely mark'd before. Say that his bodings came to pass,

79

And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth: Tell him, unheeding as I was,

Through many a busy bitter scene
Of all our golden youth had been,
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory ere I died;
But Heaven in wrath would turn away,
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.

I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
And what have I to do with fame?

I do not ask him not to mourn,
Such cold request might sound like scorn;
And what than friendship's manly tear
May better grace a brother's bier?
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him-what thou dost behold!
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,
The wrack by passion left behind,
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf,
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief!
"Tell me no more of fancy's gleam;
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream:
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep;
But could not, for my burning brow
Throbb'd to the very brain as now:
I wish'd but for a single tear,
As something welcome, new, and dear;
I wish'd it then, I wish it still;
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not, if I might, be blest;
I want no paradise, but rest.
'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then
I saw her; yes, she lived again;
And shining in her white symar,"

my

soul

As through yon pale grey cloud the star
Which now I gaze on, as on her,
Who look'd, and looks far lovelier;
Dimly I view its trembling spark;
To-morrow's night shall be more dark;
And I, before its rays appear,
That lifeless thing the living fear.
I wander, father! for
Is fleeting towards the final goal.
I saw her, friar! and I rose
Forgetful of our former woes;
And rushing from my couch, I dart,
And clasp her to my desperate heart;
I clasp-what is it that I clasp?
No breathing form within my grasp,
No heart that beats reply to mine;
Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!
And art thou, dearest, changed so much,
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?
Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold,
I care not; so my arms enfold
The all they ever wish'd to hold.
Alas! around a shadow prest,
They shrink upon my lonely breast:
Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands,
And beckons with beseeching hands!
With braided hair, and bright-black eye-

I knew 'twas false-she could not die!
But he is dead! within the dell
I saw him buried where he fell;
He comes not, for he cannot break
From earth; why then art thou awake?
They told me wild waves roll'd above
The face I view, the form I love!
They told me 'twas a hideous tale!-
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail:
If true, and from thine ocean-cave
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave,
Oh, pass thy dewy fingers o'er
This brow, that then will burn no more;
Or place them on my hopeless heart:
But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art,
In mercy ne'er again depart!
Or farther with thee bear my soul
Than winds can waft or waters roll!

"Such is my name, and such my tale. Confessor to thy secret ear

I breathe the sorrows I bewail,
And thank thee for the generous

tear

This glazing eye could never shed.
Then lay me with the humblest dead
And, save the cross above my head,
Be neither name nor emblem spread,
By prying stranger to be read,
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread."

He pass'd-nor of his name au

race

Hath left a token or a trace,
Save what the father must not say
Who shrived him on his dying day:
This broken tale was all he knew
Of her he loved, or him he slew.

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower; Her fate is fix'd this very hour:

Yet not to her repeat my thought;
By me alone be duty taught!"
"Pacha! to hear is to obey."
No more must slave to despot say-
Then to the tower had ta'en his way.
But here young Selim silence brake,

First lowly rendering reverence meet;
And downcast look'd, and gently spake,
Still standing at the Pacha's feet:
For son of Moslem must expire,
Ere dare to sit before his sire!

"Father! for fear that thou should'st chide
My sister, or her sable guide,
Know-for the fault, if fault there be,
Was mine-then fall thy frowns on me-
So lovelily the morning shone,

That-let the old and weary sleep

I could not; and to view alone

The fairest scenes o. land and deep,
With none to listen and reply

To thoughts with which my heart beat high,
Were irksome; for whate'er my mood,
In sooth I love not solitude:

I on Zuleika's slumber broke,

And, as thou knowest that for me
Soon turns the Haram's grating key,
Before the guardian slaves awoke,
We to the cypress groves had flown,
And made earth, main, and heaven our own!
There linger'd we, beguiled too long

With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song;
Till I, who heard the deep tambour t
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour,
To thee, and to my duty true,

Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew:
But there Zuleika wanders yet-
Nay, father, rage not-nor forget
That none can pierce that sacred bower

But those who watch the women's tower."

IV.

"Son of a slave !"-the Pacha said-
"From unbelieving mother bred,
Vain were a father's hope to see
Aught that beseems a man in thee.
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow,
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed,
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed,
Must more where babbling waters flow,
And watch unfolding roses blow!
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow
Thy listless eyes so much admire,
Would lend thee something of his fire!
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent;
Nay, tamely view old Stamboul's wall
Before the dogs of Moscow fall,
Nor strike one stroke for life and death
Against the curs of Nazareth!
Go-let thy less than woman's hand
Assume the distaff-not the brand.
But Haroun !--to my daughter speed:
And hark-of thine own head take heed-

Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. ✦ “Tambour," Turkish drum, which sounds I sunrise, noon, and twilight.

If thus Zuleika oft takes wing-
Thou seest you bow-it hath a string!"

No sound from Selim's lips was heard,
At least that met old Giaffir's ear;
But every frown and every word
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword.
"Son of a slave !"-reproach'd with fear!
Those gibes had cost another dear.
"Son of a slave ! and who my sire?"
Thus held his thoughts their dark career;
And glances ev'n of more than ire

Flash forth, then faintly disappear.
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son,

And started: for within his eye
He read how much his wrath had done;
He saw rebellion there begun :

"Come hither, boy-what! no reply?
I mark thee, and I know thee too;
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do:
But if thy beard had manlier length,
And if thy hand had skill and strength,
I'd joy to see thee break a lance,
Albeit against my own perchance."
As sneeringly these accents fell,
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed;

That eye returned him glance for glance, And proudly to his sire's was raised,

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance→→
And why-he felt, but durst not tell.
"Much I misdoubt this wayward boy
Will one day work me more annoy:
I never loved him from his birth,
And-but his arm is little worth,
And scarcely in the chase could cope
With timid fawn or antelope,

Far less would venture into strife
Where man contends for fame and life-
I would not trust that look or tone:
No-nor the blood so near my own.
That blood-he hath not heard-no more-
I'll watch him closer than before.
He is an Arab to my sight,*
Or Christian crouching in the fight;
But hark!-I hear Zuleika's voice;
Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear:
She is the offspring of my choice;

Oh! more than ev'n her mother dear,
With all to hope and nought to fear-
My Peri!-Ever welcome here!
Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave,
To lips just cool'd in time to save-

Such to my longing sight art thou:
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine
More thanks for life, than I for thine,

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now."

Soft as the memory of buried love;
Pure as the prayer which Childhood wafts above,
Was she-the daughter of that rude old Chief,
Who met the maid with tears--but not of grief.
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess
The might, the majesty of Loveliness?
Such was Zuleika-such around her shone
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone-
The light of love, the purity of grace,

The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole;
And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

Her graceful arms in meekness bending
Across her gently-budding breast;
At one kind word those arms extending
To clasp the neck of him who blest
His child, caressing and carest,
Zuleika came- and Giaffir felt
His purpose half within him melt:
Not that against her fancied weal
His heart though stern could ever feel;
Affection chain'd her to that heart;
Ambition tore the links apart.

VII.

"Zuleika! child of gentleness!

How dear this very day must tell,
When I forget my own distress,
In losing what I love so well,
To bid thee with another dwell:
Another! and a braver man
Was never seen in battle's van.
We Moslem reck not much of blood;
But yet the line of Carasman,*
Unchanged, unchangeable, hath stood
First of the bold Timariot bands
That won and well can keep their lands.
Enough that he who comes to woo
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou :

His years need scarce a thought employ:
I would not have thee wed a boy.
And thou shalt have a noble dower:
And his and my united power
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman,
Which others tremble but to scan,
And teach the messenger what fate
The bearer of such boon may wait.
And now thou know'st thy father's will-
All that thy sex hath need to know:
'Twas mine to teach obedience still-
The way to love, thy lord may show."

VIII.

In silence bow'd the virgin's head:
And if her eye was fill'd with tears,
That stifled feeling dare not shed,
And changed her cheek from pale to red
And red to pale, as through her ears
Those winged words like arrows sped,
What could such be but maiden fears?
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye,
Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness,
Even Pity scarce can wish it less!

* Carasman Oglu, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia.

Whate'er it was the sire forgot;
Or if remember'd, mark it not;
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his
steed,

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque,*
And mounting featly for the mead,
With Maugrabeef and Mamaluke,
His way amid his Delis took,I
To witness many an active deed
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed.
The Kislar only and his Moors
Watch well the Haram's massy doors.

IX.

His head was leant upon his hand,

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the winding Dardanelles ; But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, Careering cleave the folded felt § With sabre stroke right sharply dealt : Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, Nor heard their Ollahs | wild and loudHe thought but of old Giaffir's daughter!

X.

No word from Selim's bosom broke;
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke:
Still gazed he through the lattice grate,
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate.
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd,
But little from his aspect learn'd:
Equal her grief, yet not the same:
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame:
But yet that heart, alarm'd, or weak,
She knew not why, forbade to speak.
Yet speak she must-but when essay?
"How strange he thus should turn away!
Not thus we e'er before have met;
Not thus shall be our parting yet."
Thrice paced she slowly through the room,
And watch'd his eye-it still was fix'd:
She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd
The Persian Atar-gúl's perfume,
And sprinkled all its odours o'er
The pictured roof and marble floor:

The drops, that through his glittering vest
The playful girl's appeal address'd,
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew,

As if that breast were marble too.
"What, sullen yet? it must not be-
Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee!"
She saw in curious order set

The fairest flowers of Eastern land --
"He loved them once; may touch them yet,
If offer'd by Zuleika's hand."
The childish thought was hardly breathed
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed;

"Chibouque," the Turkish pipe.

+ "Maugrabee,"
"Moorish mercenaries.

"Delis," bravoes who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, and always begin the action. § A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a single stroke.

The cry of the Turks in battle, or while engaged in their sports.

"Atar-gúl," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest.