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The crescent gliminers on the hill, The mosque's high lamps are quivering still : Though too remote for sound to wake In echoes of the far tophaike, The flashes of each joyous peal Are seen to prove the Moslems zeal. To-night, set Rhamazani's sun : To-night, the Bairam's feast 's begun z To-night—but who and what art thou, Of foreign garb and fearful brow? And what are these to thine or thee, That thou shouldst 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’dDown glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade ; That sound had burst his waking dream As slumb'rer 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, 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 seen 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,
The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ;
The very cypress droops to death
The steed is vanish'd from the stall;
power The owl usurps
the beacon-tower ; The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,
With baffled thirst, and famine grim;
’T was sweet of yore to see it play
his mother's breast
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 manSo 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 softude 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 bis 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 vassal from labour, Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre !1
I hear the sound of coming feet,
“ Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor,
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 Bestirr'd it more,—'t was but the beam That chequer'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
Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
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 ;
And maddening in her ire,
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.