Such is the aspect of this shore So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 90 'Tis Greece-but living Greece no more! We start-for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; 95 But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away! Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birth Which gleams—but warms no more its cherish'd earth! * 100 Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat 105 Of island-pirate or Mainote; marked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character; but in death from a stab the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the last. And fearful for his light caique Though worn and weary with his toil, That best becomes an Eastern night. * 110 Who thundering comes on blackest steed? 115 With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed, Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; 120 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 *! 125 * Infidel. I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 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; Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. That jutting shadows o'er the deep- The rock relieves him from mine eye 130 135 140 145 For well I ween unwelcome he 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 150 155 160 * "Tophaike," musquet.-The Bairam is announced by the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the Mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night, To-night-but who and what art thou That thou should'st either pause or flee? He stood some dread was on his face It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient Anger's darkening blush, His brow was bent his eye was glazed- And sternly shook his hand on high, As doubting to return or fly; 165 170 175 |