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Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth!
Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Say, is not this Thermopylæ ?
Oh servile offspring of the free-
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
of those that cannot die!
What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
When man was worthy of thy clime.
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
And callous, save to crime;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 180 With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side 185 Seems gather'd 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!(7) 190 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;
195 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 shun.
On-on he hasten'd, and he drew
spurs his steed; he nears the steep, That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; He winds around; he hurries by;
210 The rock relieves him from mine eye; For well I ween unwelcome he Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight.
215 He wound along; but ere he pass’d One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, A moment check'd his wheeling steed, A moment breathed him from his speed, A moment on his stirrup stood
220 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, (8)
225 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; 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:
235 It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient Anger's darkening blush,