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If aught his lips essayed to groan,

The rushing billows choaked the tone!

XXVI.

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;
Few trophies of the fight are there :
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay
Are silent; but some signs of fray
That strand of strife may bear,
And fragments of each shivered brand;
Steps stamped; and dashed into the sand
The print of many a struggling hand
May there be marked; nor far remote
A broken torch, an oarless boat;
And tangled on the weeds that heap
The beach where shelving to the deep
There lies a white Capote!

'Tis rent in twain-one dark-red stain
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain :
But where is he who wore ?

Ye! who would o'er his relics weep
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sigæum's steep
And cast on Lemnos' shore:

The sea-birds shriek above the prey,
O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,

His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,

Then levelled with the wave

What recks it, though that corse shall lie Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only robbed the meaner worm;
The only heart, the only eye

Had bled or wept to see him die,

Had seen those scattered limbs composed,
And mourned above his turban-stone, 4°
That heart hath burst-that eye was closed-
Yea-closed before his own!

XXVII.

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail!
And woman's eye is wet-man's cheek is pale :
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race,

Thy destined lord is come too late ;
He sees not-ne'er shall see thy face!
Can he not hear

The loud Wul-wulleh 41 warn his distant ear?
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate,
The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate,

The silent slaves with folded arms that wait,
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale,
Tell him thy tale!

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall!

That fearful moment when he left the cave
Thy heart grew chill:

He was thy hope-thy joy-thy love-thine allAnd that last thought on him thou could'st not save Sufficed to kill;

Burst forth in one wild cry-and all was still.

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave!
Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst!

That grief-though deep-though fatal-was thy first!
Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse!

And, oh! that pang where more than Madness lies!
The worm that will not sleep-and never dies;
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light,
That winds around, and tears the quiv'ring heart!
Ah! wherefore not consume it-and depart!

Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief!
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head,
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread :
By that same hand Abdallah-Selim bled.
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief:
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed,
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed,
Thy Daughter's dead!

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam,
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream.

What quenched its ray?-the blood that thou hast shed!
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair :

Where is my child? » an echo answers—— «‹

XXVIII.

Within the place of thousand tombs
That shine beneath, while dark above
The sad but living cypress glooms

Where? »>

And withers not, though branch and leaf
Are stamped with an eternal grief,
Like early unrequited Love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Ev'n in that deadly grove-

A single rose is shedding there

T

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale :
It looks as planted by Despair-
So white so faint the slightest gale

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42

Might whirl the leaves on high;

And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem-in vainTo-morrow sees it bloom again! The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears; For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unsheltered by a bower;

Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, Nor woos the summer beam :

To it the livelong night there sings

A bird unseen-but not remote:

Invisible his airy wings,

But soft as harp that Houri strings
His long entrancing note!

It were the Bulbul; but his throat,

Though mournful, pours not such a strain :

For they who listen cannot leave

The spot, but linger there and grieve
As if they loved in vain!

And yet so sweet the tears they shed,

'Tis sorrow so unmixed with dread, They scarce can bear the morn to break That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well!

But when the day-blush bursts from high
Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,
Yet harsh be they that blame)

That note so piercing and profound
Will shape and syllable its sound
Into Zuleika's name. 43

"Tis from her cypress' summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word:
"Tis from her lowly virgin earth
That white rose takes its tender birth.
There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed-the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep-fixed pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell,

Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell;
Lashed by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave :
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said,
Is seen a ghastly turbaned head :
And hence extended by the billow,
"Tis named the « Pirate-phantom's pillow!
Where first it lay that mourning flower
Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale,
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!

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