What pillow'd them? and why should he More wakeful than the humblest be, Since more their peril, worse their toil? And yet they fearless dream of spoil; While he alone, where thousands pass'd A night of sleep, perchance their last, In sickly vigil wander'd on, And envied all he gazed upon.
He felt his soul become more light Beneath the freshness of the night. Cool was the silent sky, though calm, And bathed his brow with airy balm : Behind, the camp-before him lay, In many a winding creek and bay, Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, High and eternal, such as shone Through thousand summers brightly gone, Along the gulf, the mount, the clime; It will not melt, like man, to time: Tyrant and slave are swept away, Less form'd to wear before the ray; But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, While tower and tree are torn and rent, Shines o'er its craggy battlement: In form a peak, in height a cloud; In texture like a hovering shroud, Thus high by parting Freedom spread, As from her fond abode she fled, And linger'd on the spot, where long Her prophet spirit spake in song. Oh! still her step at moments falters O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, And fain would wake, in souls too broken, By pointing to each glorious token : But vain her voice, till better days Dawn in those yet remember'd rays, Which shone upon the Persian flying, And saw the Spartan smile in dying.
Not mindless of these mighty times Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; And through this night, as on he wander'd, And o'er the past and present ponder'd, And thought upon the glorious dead Who there in better cause had bled, He felt how faint and feebly dim The fame that could accrue to him,
The waters murmur'd of their name : The woods were peopled with their fame. The silent pillar, lone and grey, Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay; Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain, The meanest rill, the mightiest river, Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. Despite of every yoke she bears, That land is glory's still, and theirs! 'Tis still a watchword to the earth: When man would do a deed of worth He points to Greece, and turns to tread, So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head: He looks to her, and rushes on Where life is lost, or freedom won.
Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, And woo'd the freshness night diffused. There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, Which changeless rolls eternally;
mood. So that wildest of waves, in their angriest Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a
And the powerless moon beholds them flow, Heedless if she come or go:
Calm or high, in main or bay, On their course she hath no sway.
The rock unworn its base doth bare, And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, On the line that it left long ages ago: A smooth short space of yellow sand Between it and the greener land.
He wander'd on, along the beach, Till within the range of a carbine's reach Of the leaguer'd wall; but they saw him not, Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? Did traitors lurk in the Christian's hold? Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold?
I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown That flank'd the seaward gate of the town Though he heard the sound, and could almos The sullen words of the sentinel,
As his measured step on the stone below Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro; And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wal Hold o'er the dead their carnival, Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb,
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, They were too busy to bark at him!
A traitor in a turban'd horde;
And led them to the lawless siege, Whose best success were sacrilege. Not so had those his fancy number'd,
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh; And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, t grew du
The chiefs whose dust around him slum-As
Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. They fell devoted, but undying;
The very gale their names seem'd sighing
it slipp'd through their jaws when their edg
The reader need hardly be reminded that there are perceptible tides in the Mediterranean.
This spectacle I have seen, such as described, benest wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow terrace of which
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed;
So well had they broken a lingering fast With those who had fall'n for that night's repast. And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band: Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,* All the rest was shaven and bare.
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, The hair was tangled round his jaw. But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, Scared by the dogs, from the human prey; But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. XVII.
Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight: Never had shaken his nerves in fight; But he better could brook to behold the dying, Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. There is something of pride in the perilous hour, Whate'er be the shape in which death may For Fame is there to say who bleeds, [lower; And Honour's eye on daring deeds!
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread Oer the weltering field of the tombless dead, And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Pasts of the forest, all gathering there; All regarding man as their prey,
All rejoicing in his decay.
There is a temple in ruin stands, Fashion'd by long-forgotten hands; Iwo or three columns, and many a stone, Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! Dut upon Time! it will leave no more
f the things to come than the things before! at upon Time! who for ever will leave fut enough of the past for the future to grieve Oer that which hath been, and o'er that which must be:
hat we have seen, our sons shall see; emnants of things that have pass'd away, ragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay !
He sate him down at a pillar's base, And pass'd his hand athwart his face; Like one in dreary musing mood, Declining was his attitude;
ects between the wall and the water. I think the fact is sentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies were pro- those of some refractory Janizaries.
This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that showet will draw them into paradise by it.
His head was drooping on his breast, Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest; And o'er his brow, so downward bent, Oft his beating fingers went, Hurriedly, as you may see
Your own run over the ivory key, Ere the measured tone is taken By the chords you would awaken. There he sate all heavily,
As he heard the night-wind sigh. Was it the wind, through some hollow Sent that soft and tender moan? [stone, He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, But it was unrippled as glass may be ; He look'd on the long grass-it waved not a blade;
How was that gentle sound convey'd? He look'd to the banners-each flag lay still, So did the leaves on Citharon's hill, And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; What did that sudden sound bespeak? He turn'd to the left-is he sure of sight? There sate a lady, youthful and bright!
He started up with more of fear Than if an armed foe were near. 'God of my fathers! what is here? Who art thou, and wherefore sent So near a hostile armament ?' His trembling hands refused to sign The cross he deem'd no more divine: He had resumed it in that hour, But conscience wrung away the power. He gazed, he saw; he knew the face Of beauty, and the form of grace, It was Francesca by his side,
The maid who might have been his bride!
The rose was yet upon her cheek,
But mellow'd with a tenderer streak: Where was the play of her soft lips fled? Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. The ocean's calm within their view, Beside her eye had less of blue; But like that cold wave it stood still, And its glance, though clear, was chill. Around her form a thin robe twining, Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; Through the parting of her hair, Floating darkly downward there,
Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : And ere yet she made reply,
Once she raised her hand on high; It was so wan and transparent of hue, You might have seen the moon shine through.
I must here acknowledge a close though unintentional resemblance in these twelve lines to a in an unpub
lished poem of Mr Coleridge, called Ch It was not
till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited: and the MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist.
'I come from my rest to him I love best, That I may be happy, and he may be blest. I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall; Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 'Tis said the lion will turn and flee From a maid in the pride of her purity: And the Power on high that can shield the good Thus from the tyrant of the wood,
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well From the hands of the leaguering infidel.
I come and if I come in vain, Never, oh never, we meet again! Thou hast done a fearful deed
In falling away from thy fathers' creed: But dash that turban to earth, and sign The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; Wring the black drop from thy heart, And to-morrow unites us no more to part.'
Upon his hand she laid her own
Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, And shot a chillness to his heart,
Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, He could not loose him from its hold: But never did clasp of one so dear Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, As those thin fingers, long and white, [night. Froze through his blood by their touch that The feverish glow of his brow was gone, And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, So deeply changed from what he knew: Fair but faint-without the ray
Of mind, that made each feature play Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; And her motionless lips lay still as death, And her words came forth without her breath, And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's sweli, And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell:
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, And the glance that it gave was wild and mix'd
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight; As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
From the shadowy wall where their images Fearfully flitting to and fro, [frown, As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.
'If not for love of me be given
Thus much, then for the love of Heaven,- Again I say that turban tear
From off thy faithless brow, and swear Thine injured country's sons to spare, Or thou art lost; and never shalt see- Not earth-that's past-but heaven or me. If this thou dost accord, albeit
A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, That doom shall half absolve thy sin, And mercy's gate may receive thee within. But pause one moment more, and take The curse of Him thou didst forsake; And look once more to heaven, and see Its love for ever shut from thee. There is a light cloud by the moon 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon- If, by the time its vapoury sail Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, Thy heart within thee is not changed, Then God and man are both avenged; Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill.'
Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky; But his heart was swoll'n, and turn'd aside, By deep interminable pride.
This first false passion of his breast Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. He sue for mercy! He dismay'd By wild words of a timid maid! He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save Her sons, devoted to the grave! No-though that cloud were thunder's worst, And charged to crush him-let it burst!
He look'd upon it earnestly, Without an accent of reply;
He watch'd it passing; it is flown: Full on his eye the clear moon shore, And thus he spake: Whate'er my fate, I am no changeling-'tis too late: The reed in storms may bow and quiver, Then rise again; the tree must shiver. What Venice made me I must be, Her foe in all, save love to thee: But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!'
I have been told that the idea expressed in this and five following lines has been admired by those wh un-bation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not or least not mine; it may be found much better estats pages 182-184 of the English version of askes i tong t precise page of the French), a work to which I have be referred; and never recur to, or read, without a repe gratification.
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;
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