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 cumber'd 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.

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Who thundering comes on blackest steed?

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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,

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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

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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 shun.

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

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20.5

He winds around-he hurries by

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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,

8

The flashes of each joyous peal

Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
Tonight-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?

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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 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 his arm, and fiercely raised;

And sternly shook his hand on high,

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As doubting to return or fly ;

Impatient of his flight delayed

Here loud his raven charger neighed—

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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-
Swift as the hurled on high jerreed, 9
Springs to the touch his startled steed,

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O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years—
What felt he then-at once opprest

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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,

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