THE

BRIDE OF ABYDOS.

CANTO

II.

I.

THE winds are high on Helle's wave,
As on that night of stormy water
When Love, who sent, forgot to save

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The young, the beautiful, the brave,
The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.
Oh! when alone along the sky
Her turret-torch was blazing high,

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His eye but saw that light of love,
The only star it hailed 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.

The winds are high, and Helle's tide
Rolls darkly heaving to the main;
And night's descending shadows hide

That field with blood bedewed in vain,
The desart of old Priam's pride;

All

The tombs, sole relics of his reign,

save immortal dreams that could beguile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle!

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III.

Oh! yet

for there my steps have been; These feet have pressed the sacred shore, 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,

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And that around the undoubted scene

Thine own "broad Hellespont" 25 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,
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
Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow:
That mighty heap of gathered ground
Which Ammon's son ran proudly round,
By nations raised, by monarchs crowned,
Is now a lone and nameless barrow!

Within

Without

--

thy dwelling-place how narrow! 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.

Late, late to night will Dian cheer

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear;

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Till then -no beacon on the cliff

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May shape the course of struggling skiff;
The scattered lights that skirt the bay,
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

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Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber,
O'er which her fairy fingers ran;
Near these, with emerald rays beset,
(How could she thus that gem forget?)

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Iler mother's sainted amulet, 26

Whereon engraved the Koorsee text,

Could smooth this life, and win the next;

And by her Comboloio 7 lies

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A Koran of illumined dyes;'

And many a bright emblazoned rhyme

By Persian scribes redeemed from time;
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute,
Reclines her now neglected lute;

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And round her lamp of fretted gold

Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould;

The richest work of Iran's loom,

And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume;

All that can eye or sense delight

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Are gathered in that gorgeous room:
But yet it hath an air of gloom.

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
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,
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.

They reached at length a grotto, hewn
By nature, but enlarged by art,
Where oft her lute she wont to tune,

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And oft her Koran conned apart; And oft in youthful reverie