They were inured to sights of woe, Along my cell from side to side, And round the pillars one by one, My brothers' graves without a sod; I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me: No partner in my misery; I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend I saw them and they were the same, They were not changed like me in frame; On high their wide long lake below, A small green isle, it seem'd no more, The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seem'd joyous each and all; Closing o'er one we sought to save, It might be months, or years, or days, And clear them of their dreary mote; I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, It was at length the same to me Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair. And thus when they appear'd at last, So much a long communion tends 1 THE EAST. (BRIDE OF ABYDOS, Canto i. Stanza 1.) KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, opprest with per fume, Wax faint o'er the Gardens of Gúl in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute: Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye; 'T is the clime of the East; 't is the land of the Sun Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. JOURNEY AND DEATH OF HASSAN. (From THE GIAOUR.) STERN Hassan hath a journey ta'en With twenty vassals in his train, Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, The chief before, as deck'd for war, Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, Of what befell in Parne's vale. The pistols which his girdle bore Were those that once a pacha wore, Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, Even robbers tremble to behold. 'T is said he goes to woo a bride More true than her who left his side; The faithless slave that broke her bower, * * * * The sun's last rays are on the hill, The foremost Tartar's in the gap, Conspicuous by his yellow cap; * |