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Such is the aspect of this shore
'Tis Greece—but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start--for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
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!
100 Spark of that flame“perchance of heavenly birthWhich gleams—but warms no more its cherish'd earth!
Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
The shadows of the rocks advancing,
Start on the fisher's
like boat 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
He shuns the near but doubtful creek,
Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumber'd with bis scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oår,
Till Port Leone's safer shore
Receives him by the lovely light
That best becomes an Eastern night.
Who thundering comes on blackest steed?
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 för 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 shuņ.
Onon 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-
* “ 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
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 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;n.
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
The rock is doubled
and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more-