As, springing high, the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew,
And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o'er the ground.
'Twas 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 seemed 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 filed-
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 quench'd 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 'twere joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow man-
So here the very voice of grief
Might wake an echo like relief;
At least 'twould 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 gathered 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." 11
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 labor, Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! 12

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 channell❜d waters dark and deep,
Rest from your task-so-bravely done,
Our course has been right swiftly run,
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow,
That one of-

Sullen it plung'd, and slowly sank,
The calm wave rippled to the bank;
I watch'd as it sank, methought
Some motion from the current caught
Bestirr'd it more,-'twas but the beam
That checker'd 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,
Wo 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?

No! gayer insects fluttering by

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

To every failing but their own,
And every wo 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; 17

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 rumors 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.
'Twas 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 Giaoun
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 deserv'd a grave:
And on that eve had gone to mosque,
And thence to feast in his kiosk.
Such is the tales his Nubians tell,

Who did not watch their charge too well;
And 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 'twere 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! 23
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 armed with beauty would she check
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 scimetar
Stained 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 gemm'd and boss'd with gold
Even robbers tremble to behold.
"Tis 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 mountaineer;
Here may the loitering merchant Greek
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek
In cities lodged too near his lord,
And trembling for his secret hoard-
Here may he rest where none can see,
In crowds a slave, in deserts free;
And with forbidden wine may stain
The bowl a Moslem must not drain.

The foremost Tartar's in the gap,
Conspicuous by his yellow cap;
The rest in lengthening line the while
Wind slowly through the long defile:
Above the mountain rears a peak,
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak,
And theirs may be a feast to-night,
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light;

Beneath, a river's wintry stream
Has shrunk before the summer beam,"
And left a channel bleak and bare,
Save shrubs that spring to perish there:
Each side the midway path there lay
Small broken crags of granite gray,
By time, or mountain lightning riven
From summits clad in mists of heaven;
For where is he that hath beheld
The peak of Liakura unveil'd?

They reach the grove of pine at last: "Bismillah! 26 now the peril's past; For yonder view the opening plain, And there we 'll prick our steeds amain." The Chiaus spake, and as he said, A bullet whistled o'er his head; The foremost Tartar bites the ground! Scarce had they time to check the rein, Swift from their steeds the riders bound; But three shall never mount again; Unseen the foes that gave the wound, The dying ask revenge in vain. With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, Some o'er their courser's harness leant, Half shelter'd by the steed; Some fly behind the nearest rock, And there await the coming shock, Nor tamely stand to bleed Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, Who dare not quit their craggy screen. Stern Hassan only from his horse Disdains to light, and keeps his course. Till fiery flashes in the van Proclaim too sure the robber-clan Have well secured the only way Could now avail the promised prey; Then curl'd his very beard 27 with ire, And glared his eye with fiercer fire: 66 'Though far and near the bullets hiss, I've scaped a bloodier hour than this.' And now the foe their covert quit, And call his vassals to submit ; But Hassan's frown and furious word Are dreaded more than hostile sword, Nor of his little band a man Resign'd carbine or ataghan, Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun! 28 In fuller sight, more near and near, The lately ambush'd foes appear, And, issuing from the grove, advance Some who on battle-charger prance. Who leads them on with foreign brand, Far flashing in his red right hand? "Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now; I know him by his pallid brow; I know him by the evil eye 29 That aids his envious treachery; I know him by his jet-black barb : Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, Apostate from his own vile faith, It shall not save him from the death: "Tis he! well met in any hour! Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!"

As rolls the river into the ocean, In sable torrent wildly streaming;

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, In azure column proudly gleaming,

Beats back the current many a rood,
In curling foam and mingling flood,
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave
Roused by the blast of winter, rave;
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash,
The lightnings of the waters flash

In awful whiteness o'er the shore,

That shines and shakes beneath the roar;
Thus as the stream and ocean greet,
With waves that madden as they meet-
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong,
And fate, and fury, drive along.
The bickering sabres' shivering jar;
And pealing wide or ringing near
Its echoes on the throbbing ear,.
The death-shot hissing from afar;
The shock, the shout, the groan of war,
Reverberate along that vale,

More suited to the shepherd's tale:
Though few the numbers-theirs the strife,
That neither spares nor speaks for life!
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,
To seize and share the dear caress;
But love itself could never pant
For all that beauty sighs to grant
With half the fervor hate bestows
Upon the last embrace of foes,
When grappling in the fight they fold
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold:
Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith;
True foes, once met, are join'd till death!

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt,

Yet dripping with the blood he spilt:
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand
Which quivers round that faithless brand;
His turban far behind him roll'd,
And cleft in twain its firmest fold;
His flowing robe by falchion torn,
And crimson as those clouds of morn
That, streak'd with dusky red, portend
The day shall have a stormy end;

A stain on every bush that bore

A fragment of his palampore,30

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven,
Fallen Hassan lies-his unclosed eye
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.-

"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
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?

I watched 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: 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." 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?
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;

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,

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;
He drew the token, from his vest-
Angel of Death! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest-
His calpac 31 rent-his caftan red-
"Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed;
Me, not for mercy, did they spare,
But this empurpled pledge to bear.
Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt;
Wo to the Giaour! for his the guilt."

A turban 32 carved in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,
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
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee;
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine,

Or prayed with face towards the shrine,
In orisons resumed anew

At solemn sound of "Alla Hu!" 33
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

Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes

On him shall glance for ever bright;

They come their kerchiefs green they wave,
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour

Is worthiest an immortal bower.

But thou, false infidel! shalt writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir's 35 scythe;
And from its torment 'scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis' 36 throne;
A fire unquench'd, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
Nor ear car. hear nor tongue can tell

34

The tortures of that inward hell!
But first, on earth as vampire 37 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,
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,
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-
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:
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt 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,
Memorial of thine agony!
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go-and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
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, 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, I could not pass it by again; It breathes the same dark spirit now, As death was stamp'd upon his brow."

""Tis twice three years at summer-tide

Since first among our freres he came; 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 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; 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, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. Great largess to these walls he brought, And thus our abbot's favor bought; But were I prior, not a day

29

Should brook such stranger's further stay,

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,
Wrongs 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,

Which beckons onward to his grave,
And lures to leap into the wave."

Dark and unearthly is the scowl
That glares beneath his dusky cowl:
The flash of that dilating eye
Reveals too much of times gone by;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
A spirit yet unquell'd and high,
That claims and keeps ascendancy;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,
But cannot fly the gazing snake,
Will others quail beneath his look,

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook.
From him the half-affrighted friar
When met alone would fain retire,
As if that eye and bitter smile
Transferr'd to others fear and guile :
Not oft to smile descendeth he,
And when he doth 'tis sad to see
That he but mocks at misery.
How that pale lip will curl and quiver,
Then fix once more as if for ever;
As if his sorrow or disdain
Forbade him e'er to smile again.
Well were it so-such ghastly mirth
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth
But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face:
Time hath not yet the features fix'd,
But brighter traits with evil mix'd;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded:
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy

A noble soul, and lineage high:
Alas! though both bestow'd in vain,

Which grief could change, and guilt could stain.
It was no vulgar tenement

To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted.
The roofless cot, decay'd and rent,

Will scarce delay the passer by;
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,
Demands and daunts the stranger's eye;
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!

'His floating robe around him folding, Slow sweeps he through the colum'd aisle ;

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding
The rights that sanctify the pile.
But when the anthem shakes the choir,
And kneel the monks, his steps retire;
By yonder lone and wavering torch
His aspect glares within the porch;
There will he pause till all is done-
And hear the prayer, but utter none.
See-by the half-illumined wall
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall,
That pale brow widely wreathing round,
As if the Gorgon there had bound
The sablest of the serpent-braid
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd:
For he declines the convent oath,
And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth,
But wears our garb in all beside:
And, not from piety but pride,
Gives wealth to walls that never heard
Of his one holy vow nor word.
Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony
Peals louder praises to the sky,
That livid cheek, that stony air
Of mix'd defiance and despair!
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine,
Else may we dread the wrath divine
Made manifest by awful sign.

If ever evil angel bore

The form of mortal, such he wore :

By all my hope of sins forgiven,

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!

"

To love the softest hearts are prone,
But such can ne'er be all his own;
Too timid in his woes to share,
Too meek to meet, or brave despair;
And sterner hearts alone may feel
The wound that time can never heal.
The rugged metal of the mine
Must burn before its surface shine,
But plunged within the furnace-flame,
It bends and melts-though still the same;
Then temper'd to thy want, or will,
"Twill serve thee to defend or kill;
A breastplate for thine hour of need,
Or blade to bid thy foemen bleed;
But if a dagger's form it bear,
Let those who shape its edge beware!
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art,
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;
From these its form and tone are ta'en,
And what they make it, must remain,
But break-before it bend again.

If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share ;
Even bliss-'twere wo alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay!