If aught his lips essayed to groan, The rushing billows choaked the tone! XXVI. Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; 'Tis rent in twain-one dark-red stain Ye! who would o'er his relics weep The sea-birds shriek above the prey, His head heaves with the heaving billow; Then levelled with the wave What recks it, though that corse shall lie Within a living grave? The bird that tears that prostrate form Had bled or wept to see him die, Had seen those scattered limbs composed, XXVII. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! Thy destined lord is come too late ; The loud Wul-wulleh 41 warn his distant ear? The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! That fearful moment when he left the cave 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! That grief-though deep-though fatal-was thy first! And, oh! that pang where more than Madness lies! Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, What quenched its ray?-the blood that thou hast shed! ་ Where is my child? » an echo answers—— «‹ XXVIII. Within the place of thousand tombs Where? »> And withers not, though branch and leaf A single rose is shedding there T Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 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 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 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, But when the day-blush bursts from high And some have been who could believe That note so piercing and profound "Tis from her cypress' summit heard, Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell; |