… 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 fixed, 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 fixed 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
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--aye--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!
Such is the aspect of this shore--
'Tis Greece--but living Greece no more! …
Who thundering comes on blackest steed?
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed,
Beneath the chattering 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 ocean-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!
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 scath'd 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 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--
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,
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 hasty 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 delayed
Here loud his raven charger neighed--
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--
Swift as the hurled 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.--
'Twas but an instant--he restrained
That fiery barb so sternly reined--
'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
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 pondered 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,
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 vanished 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; …
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!
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;
The foremost of the band is seen
An Emir by his garb of green:
'Ho! who art thou!'--'this low salam
Replies 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 'tis 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
Bestirr'd it more,--'twas but the beam
That chequer'd o'er the living stream--
I gaz'd, 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. …
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 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,
But 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 deserv'd 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 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.
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 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
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-- …
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 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!-- …
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 secur'd the only way
Could now avail the promis'd prey; …
''Tis he--'tis he--I know him now,
I know him by his pallid brow;
I know him by the evil eye
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!' …
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,
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven,
Fall'n Hassan lies--his unclos'd 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 this 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 watch'd my time, I leagu'd 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.' …
A turban carv'd in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,
Wheron 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 Imee;
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine,
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine,
In orisons resumed anew
At solemn sound of 'Alla Hu!'
Yet died he by a stranger's hand,
And stranger in his native land--
Yet died he as in arms he stood,
And unaveng'd, 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 scythe;
And from its torment 'scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis' throne;
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable--
Around--within--thy heart shall dwell,
Nor ear can hear, nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!--
But first, on earth as Vampire 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 daemon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. …
'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 favour bought;
But were I Prior, not a day
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 'whelmed beneath the sea;
Of sabres clashing--foemen flying,
Wrongs aveng'd--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.' …
Lo!--mark ye--as the harmony
Peals louder praises to the sky--
That livid cheek--that stoney air
Of mixed 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. …
'Nay, start not--no--nor bend thy knee,
Nor midst my sins such act record,
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,
For he was hostile to thy creed!
The very name of Nazarene
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen,
Ungrateful fool! since but for brands,
Well wielded in some hardy hands;
And wounds by Galileans given,
The surest pass to Turkish heav'n;
For him his Houris still might wait
Impatient at the prophet's gate.
I lov'd her--love will find its way
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey,
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard
If passion met not some reward--
No matter how--or where--or why,
I did not vainly seek--nor sigh:
Yet sometimes with remorse in vain
I wish she had not lov'd again.
She died--I dare not tell thee how,
But look--'tis written on my brow!
There read of Cain the curse and crime,
In characters unworn by time:
Still, ere thou dost condemn me--pause--
Not mine the act, though I the cause;
Yet did he but what I had done
Had she been false to more than one; …
'Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven--
A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shar'd--by Alla given,
To lift from earth our low desire.
Devotion wafts the mind above,
But Heaven itself descends in love--
A feeling from the Godhead caught,
To wean from self each sordid thought--
A Ray of him who form'd the whole--
A Glory circling round the soul!
I grant my love imperfect--all
That mortals by the name miscall--
Then deem it evil--what thou wilt--
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! …
'Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep;
But could not, for my burning brow
Throbb'd to the very brain as now.
I wish'd but for a single tear,
As something welcome, new, and dear;
I wish'd it then--I wish it still,
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison--despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer;
I would not, if I might, be blest,
I want no paradise--but rest. …'
He pass'd--nor of his name and race
Hath left a token or a trace,
Save what the father must not say
Who shrived him on his dying day;
This broken tale was all we knew
Of her he lov'd, or him he slew.
Source: http://www.english-literature.uni-bayreuth.de/en/teaching/documents/courses/Byron-Giaour2.doc
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