The crag
is wonno more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.-
'Twas but an instantthough so long
When thus dilated in my song
'Twas but an instant that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued;
But in that instant, o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seemed to roll;
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years,
What felt he then-at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause which pondered o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in Time's record nearly nought,
It was Eternity to Thought!
For infinite as boundless space
The thought that Conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend
Woe without name or hope-or end.
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.
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;
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.com
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 bis 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
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
The
crag
is wonno more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.-
'Twas but an instant--though so long
When thus dilated in my song-
'Twas but an instant that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued;
But in that instant, o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seemed to roll;
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O’er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years
What felt he then-at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause-which pondered o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in Time's record nearly nought,
It was Eternity to Thought!
For infinite as boundless space
The thought that Conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend
Woe without name-or hope-or end.-
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