BYRON.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the olden time;» or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.

THE GIAOUR.

No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff,
High o'er the land he saved in vain :
When shall such hero live again?

Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tiats of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave

These Edens of the eastern wave;
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is cach gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odours there!
For there the rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the nightingale, 2

The maid for whom his melody,

His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: His queen, the garden queen, his rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returus the sweets by nature given, In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share, And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest; Whose bark in sheltering cove below Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, Till the gay mariner's guitar3 Is heard, and seen the evening star;

Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.
Strange that where nature loved to trace,
As if for gods, a dwelling-place,

And every charm and grace hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fix'd,
There man, enamour'd of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him-but to spare!
Strange-that where all is peace beside
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress
(Before decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Where cold obstruction's apathy 4
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd! 5
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave

Was freedom's home or glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:

Say, is not this Thermopyle?
These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
T were long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the muse might soar,
High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led

Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave, 6
And callous, save to crime;
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes:
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast.
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft,
In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renown'd.

In vain might liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke,

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:

No more her sorrows I bewail,

Yet this will be a mournful tale,

And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

Who thundering comes on blackest steed With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed? Beneath the clattering iron's sound, The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side Seems gather'd from the occan-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast; And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!7 I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface: Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

On-on he hasten'd, and he drew
My gaze of wonder as he flew:
Though like a demon of the night

He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight,
His
aspect and his air impress'd

A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear

Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;
He winds around; he hurries by;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee;
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along; but ere he pass'd
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last,
A moment check'd his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood-
Why looks he o'er the olive wood?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,

The mosque's high lamps are quivering still:
Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike,8
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun;
To-night, the Bairam feast's begun;
To-night-but who and what art thou,
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?

And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou should'st either pause or flee?
He stood-some dread was on his face,
Soon hatred settled in its place:

It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient anger's darkening blush,
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed,
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly:
Impatient of his flight delay'd,

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd-
Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade;
That sound had burst his waking dream,
As slumber starts at owlet's scream.

The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;
Away, away, for life he rides;
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed, 9
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more;
The crag is won, no more is scen
His christian crest and haughty mien
'T was but an instant he restrain'd
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd:
'T was but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued ;
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.

O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years:
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in time's record nearly nought,
It was eternity to thought!

For infinite as boundless space

The thought that conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend

Woe without name, or hope, or end.

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone;
And did he fly or fall alone?
Woe to that hour he came or went!
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent,
To turn a palace to a tomb :

He came, he went, like the simoom,10
That harbinger of fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath
The very cypress droops to death-
Dark tree,
still sad when others' grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead!
The steed is vanish'd from the stall;
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;
The lonely spider's thin grey pall
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall;
The bat builds in his haram bower;
And in the fortress of his power
The owl usurps the beacon-tower;

The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,
With baffled thirst, and famine, grim;

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread,
T was sweet of yore to see it play
And chase the sultriness of day,
As springing high the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew,

And flung luxurious coolness round

The air, and verdure o'er the ground.

T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,
To view the wave of watery light,

And hear its melody by night,

And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd
Around the verge of that cascade;
And oft upon his mother's breast
That sound had harmonized his rest;
And oft had Hassan's youth along
Its bank been soothed by beauty's song;
And softer seem'd each melting tone
Of music mingled with its own.
But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose
Along the brink at twilight's close:
The stream that fill'd that font is fled-
The blood that warm'd his heart is shed!
And here no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice;
The last sad note that swell'd the gale
Was woman's wildest funeral wail:
That quenched in silence, all is still,

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill:
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,

No hand shall close its clasp again.
On desert sands 't were joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow man-
So here the very voice of grief
Might wake an echo like relief;

At least 't would say, «all are not gone;
There lingers life, though but in one-»
For many a gilded chamber's there,
Which solitude might well forbear;
Within that dome as yet decay

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way-
But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate,
Nor there the fakir's self will wait;
Nor there will wandering dervise stay,
For bounty cheers not his delay;
Nor there will weary stranger halt
To bless the sacred « bread and salt.»

Alike must wealth and poverty
Pass heedless and unheeded by,
For courtesy and pity died

With Hassan on the mountain side.

His roof, that refuge unto men,

Is desolation's hungry den.

The guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labour, Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre!11

I hear the sound of coming feet,
But not a voice mine ear to greet;
More near-each turban I can scan,
And silver-sheathed ataghan;13
The foremost of the band is seen,
emir by his garb of green: 14

Ho! who art thou?-this low salam 15 Rephes of Moslem faith I am.

The burthen ye so gently bear,
Seems one that claims your utmost care,
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight,
My humble bark would gladly wait.»>

« Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, And waft us from the silent shore; Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply The nearest oar that 's scatter'd by, And midway to those rocks where sleep The channel'd waters dark and deep. Rest from your task-so-bravely done, Our course has been right swiftly run; Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, That one of

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank,
The calm wave rippled to the bank;
I watch'd it as it sank, methought
Some motion from the current caught
Bestirrd it more,-'t was but the beam
That chequered o'er the living stream:
I gazed, till vanishing from view,
Like lessening pebble it withdrew;
Still less and less, a speck of white
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight;
And all its hidden secrets sleep,
Known but to genii of the deep,

Which, trembling in their coral caves,
They dare not whisper to the waves.

As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen 16 of eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower

A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful

eye:

So beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild;
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.

If won, to equal ills betray'd,
Woe waits the insect and the maid;

A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play, and man's caprice:
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught.
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away,
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.

With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah! where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar

From rose to tulip as before?

Or beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower? gayer insects fluttering by

No:

Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown

And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame.

The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire,
In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flames around their captive close,
Till inly search'd by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,
One sad and sole relief she knows,
The sting she nourish'd for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,
And darts into her desperate brain:
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire; '7
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death!

Black Hassan from the haram flies,
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes;
The unwonted chase each hour employs,
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys.
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly
When Leila dwelt in his Serai.
Doth Leila there no longer dwell?
That tale can only Hassan tell:
Strange rumours in our city say
Upon that eve she fled away,

When Rhamazan's 18 last sun was set,
And, flashing from each minaret,
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast
Of Bairam through the boundless east.
T was then she went as to the bath,
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath;
For she was flown her master's rage,
In likeness of a Georgian page,
And far beyond the Moslem's power
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour.
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd;
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd,
Too well he trusted to the slave
Whose treachery deserved a grave:
And on that eve had gone to mosque,
And thence to feast in his kiosk.
Such is the tale his Nubians tell,

Who did not watch their charge too well;
But others say, that on that night,
By pale Phingari's 19 trembling light,
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed
Was seen, but seen alone to speed
With bloody spur along the shore,
Nor maid nor page behind him bore.

Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell, But gaze on that of the gazelle, It will assist thy fancy well; As large, as languishingly dark, But soul beam'd forth in every spark That darted from beneath the lid, Bright as the jewel of Giamschid, 20

Yea, soul, and should our prophet say

That form was nought but breathing clay,
By Alla! I would answer nay;

Though on Al-Sirat's 21 arch I stood,
Which totters o'er the fiery flood,
With paradise within my view,
And all his houris beckoning through.
Oh! who young Leila's glance could read,
And keep that portion of his creed 22
Which saith that woman is but dust,
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust?
On her might muftis gaze, and own
That through her eye the Immortal shone;
On her fair cheek's unfading hue
The young pomegranate's 23 blossoms strew
Their bloom in blushes ever new;
Her hair in hyacinthine 24 flow,
When left to roll its folds below,
As midst her handmaids in the hall
She stood superior to them all,
Hath swept the marble where her feet
Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet,
Ere from the cloud that gave it birth
It fell, and caught one stain of earth.
The cygnet nobly walks the water;
So moved on earth Circassia's daughter,
The loveliest bird of Franguestan! 15

As rears her crest the ruffled swan,

And spurns the wave with wings of pride,

When pass the steps of stranger man

Along the banks that bound her tide;
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck:-

Thus arm'd with beauty would she cheek
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise.
Thus high and graceful was her gait;
Her heart as tender to her mate;
Her mate-stern Hassan, who was he?
Alas! that name was not for thee!

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en,
With twenty vassals in his train,
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man,
With arquebuss and ataghan;
The chief before, as deck'd for war,
Bears in his belt the scimitar

Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood,

When in the pass the rebels stood,
And few return'd to tell the tale

Of what befell in Parne's vale.

The pistols which his girdle bore

Were those that once a pasha wore,

Which still, though geinm d and boss'd with gold,

Even robbers tremble to behold.

T is said he goes to woo a bride

More true than her who left his side;

The faithless slave that broke her bower,
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour!

The sun's last rays are on the hill, And sparkle in the fountain rill, Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, Draw blessings from the mountaincer: Here may the loitering merchant Greek Find that repose 't were vain to seek