Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To vilain-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,

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Now crawl from cradle to the grave,

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Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave,"

And callous, save to crime;

Stained with each evil that pollutes

Mankind, where least above the brutes;
Without even savage virtue blest,

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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, renowned.

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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,

VOL. II.

B

Yet this will be a mournful tale,

And they who listen may believe,

Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

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Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
The shadows of the rocks advancing,

Start on the fisher's eye like boat
Of island - pirate or Mainote;
And fearful for his light caique,

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He shuns the near but doubtful creek:
Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumbered with his scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,
Till Port Leone's safer shore

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Receives him by the lovely light

That best becomes an Eastern night.

*

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slackened bit and hoof of speed?

Beneath the clattering iron's sound

The caverned echoes wake around
In lash for lash, and bound for bound;
The foam that streaks the courser's side

Seems gathered from the ocean-tide:

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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!"
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,

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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 hastened, and he drew

My gaze of wonder as he flew :

Though like a demon of the night

He passed and vanished from my sight,
His aspect and his air impressed

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;

Ba

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For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fixed 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 passed
One glance he snatched, as if his last,
A moment checked 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,

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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?
some dread was on his face;

He stood

Soon Hatred settled in its place:

It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient Anger's hasty blush,

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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:

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Impatient of his flight delayed,

Here loud his raven charger neighed

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Down glanced that hand, and grasped 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 :

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'Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued;
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seemed to roll,

And gather in that drop of time

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