Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing,

Start on the fisher's eye like boat

Of island-pirate or Mainote;

And fearful for his light caique,

He shuns the near but doubtful creek:
Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumbered with his scaly spoil,

Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,
Till Port Leone's safer shore

Receives him by the lovely light

That best becomes an Eastern night.

*

* *

*

*

*

170

175

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,

With slackened bit and hoof of speed?

181

Beneath the clattering iron's sound

The caverned echoes wake around

In lash for lash, and bound for bound;

The foam that streaks the courser's side 185

Seems gathered 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 scathed by fiery passion's brunt;

Though bent on earth thine evil eye,

As meteor like thou glidest by,

7

191

195

Right well I view and deem thee one

Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

On-on he hastened, and he drew

200

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;

205

210

And not a star but shines too bright

On him who takes such timeless flight. 215 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,

220

The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still : Though too remote for sound to wake

In echoes of the far tophaike,

8

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;

225

To-night-but who and what art thou 230

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.

235

His brow was bent, his eye was glazed; 240

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 245