  The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful. 12.htm.html#Footnote_ez" class="fnanchor pginternal">[ez] Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. II.swash The winds are high on Helle's wave, As on that night of stormy water When Love, who sent, forgot to save The young—the beautiful—the brave— The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. Oh! when alone along the sky Her turret-torch was blazing high, Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 490 And shrieking sea-birds warned him home; And clouds aloft and tides below, With signs and sounds, forbade to go, He could not see, he would not hear, Or sound or sign foreboding fear; His eye but saw that light of Love, The only star it hailed above; His ear but rang with Hero's song, "Ye waves, divide not lovers long!"— That tale is old, but Love anew May nerve young hearts to prove as true. The winds are high and Helle's tide Rolls darkly heaving to the main; And Night's descending shadows hide That field with blood bedewed in vain, The desert of old Priam's pride; The tombs, sole relics of his reign, All—save immortal dreams that could beguile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle! Oh! yet—for there my steps have been; 510 These feet have pressed the sacred shore, These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne— Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn, To trace again those fields of yore, Believing every hillock green Contains no fabled hero's ashes, And that around the undoubted scene Thine own "broad Hellespont" Be long my lot! and cold were he Who there could gaze denying thee! 520 The Night hath closed on Helle's stream, Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill That Moon, which shone on his high theme: No warrior chides her peaceful beam, But conscious shepherds bless it still. Their flocks are grazing on the Mound Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow: That mighty heap of gathered ground Which Ammon's son ran proudly round, By nations raised, by monarchs crowned, 530 Is now a lone and nameless barrow! Within—thy dwelling-place how narrow! Without—can only strangers breathe The name of him that was beneath: Dust long outlasts the storied stone; But Thou—thy very dust is gone! Late, late to-night will Dian cheer The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; Till then—no beacon on the cliff The scattered lights that skirt the bay, All, one by one, have died away; The only lamp of this lone hour Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. Yes! there is light in that lone chamber, And o'er her silken ottoman Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, O'er which her fairy fingers ran; Near these, with emerald rays beset, (How could she thus that gem forget?) 550 Her mother's sainted amulet, Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, Could smooth this life, and win the next; And by her Comboloio And many a bright emblazoned rhyme By Persian scribes redeemed from Time; And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, Reclines her now neglected lute; And round her lamp of fretted gold 560 Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; The richest work of Iran's loom, And Sheeraz All that can eye or sense delight Are gathered in that gorgeous room: But yet it hath an air of gloom. She, of this Peri cell the sprite, What doth she hence, and on so rude a night? Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, Which none save noblest Moslem wear,570 To guard from winds of Heaven the breast As Heaven itself to Selim dear, With cautious steps the thicket threading, And starting oft, as through the glade The gust its hollow moanings made, Till on the smoother pathway treading, More free her timid bosom beat, The maid pursued her silent guide; And though her terror urged retreat, How could she quit her Selim's side?580 How teach her tender lips to chide? They reached at length a grotto, hewn By nature, but enlarged by art, Where oft her lute she wont to tune, And oft her Koran conned apart; And oft in youthful reverie She dreamed what Paradise might be: Where Woman's parted soul shall go Her Prophet had disdained to show; But Selim's mansion was secure, 590 Nor deemed she, could he long endure His bower in other worlds of bliss Without her, most beloved in this! Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? What Houri soothe him half so well? Since last she visited the spot Some change seemed wrought within the grot: It might be only that the night Disguised things seen by better light: That brazen lamp but dimly threw 600 A ray of no celestial hue; But in a nook within the cell Her eye on stranger objects fell. There arms were piled, not such as wield The turbaned Delis in the field; But brands of foreign blade and hilt, And one was red—perchance with guilt! Ah! how without can blood be spilt? That did not seem to hold sherbet. 610 What may this mean? she turned to see Her Selim—"Oh! can this be he?" His robe of pride was thrown aside, His brow no high-crowned turban bore, But in its stead a shawl of red, Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore: That dagger, on whose hilt the gem Were worthy of a diadem, No longer glittered at his waist, Where pistols unadorned were braced; 620 And from his belt a sabre swung, And from his shoulder loosely hung The cloak of white, the thin capote That decks the wandering Candiote; Beneath—his golden plated vest Clung like a cuirass to his breast; The greaves below his knee that wound With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. But were it not that high command Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 630 All that a careless eye could see In him was some young GaliongÉe. X."I said I was not what I seemed; And now thou see'st my words were true: I have a tale thou hast not dreamed, If sooth—its truth must others rue. My story now 'twere vain to hide, I must not see thee Osman's bride: But had not thine own lips declared How much of that young heart I shared, 640 I could not, must not, yet have shown The darker secret of my own. In this I speak not now of love; That—let Time—Truth—and Peril prove: But first—Oh! never wed another— Zuleika! I am not thy brother!" XI."Oh! not my brother!—yet unsay— God! am I left alone on earth To mourn—I dare not curse—the day That saw my solitary birth?650 Oh! thou wilt love me now no more! My sinking heart foreboded ill; But know me all I was before, Thy sister—friend—Zuleika still. Thou led'st me here perchance to kill; If thou hast cause for vengeance, see! My breast is offered—take thy fill! Far better with the dead to be Than live thus nothing now to thee: Why Giaffir always seemed thy foe; And I, alas! am Giaffir's child, For whom thou wert contemned, reviled. If not thy sister—would'st thou save My life—Oh! bid me be thy slave!" XII."My slave, Zuleika!—nay, I'm thine: But, gentle love, this transport calm, Thy lot shall yet be linked with mine; I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, And be that thought thy sorrow's balm.670 So may the Koran Upon its steel direct my blade, In danger's hour to guard us both, As I preserve that awful oath! The name in which thy heart hath prided Must change; but, my Zuleika, know, That tie is widened, not divided, Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. My father was to Giaffir all That brother wrought a brother's fall, But spared, at least, my infancy! And lulled me with a vain deceit That yet a like return may meet. He reared me, not with tender help, But like the nephew of a Cain; He watched me like a lion's whelp, That gnaws and yet may break his chain. My father's blood in every vein Is boiling! but for thy dear sake690 No present vengeance will I take; Though here I must no more remain. But first, beloved Zuleika! hear How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. XIII."How first their strife to rancour grew, If Love or Envy made them foes, It matters little if I knew; And thoughtless, will disturb repose. In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 700 Remembered yet in Bosniac song, And Paswan's How little love they bore such guest: His death is all I need relate, The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; And how my birth disclosed to me, Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. XIV."When Paswan, after years of strife, At last for power, but first for life, In Widdin's walls too proudly sate, 710 Our Pachas rallied round the state; Not last nor least in high command, Each brother led a separate band; They gave their Horse-tails And mustering in Sophia's plain Their tents were pitched, their post assigned; To one, alas! assigned in vain! What need of words? the deadly bowl, By Giaffir's order drugged and given, With venom subtle as his soul, Dismissed Abdallah's hence to heaven. 720 Reclined and feverish in the bath, He, when the hunter's sport was up, But little deemed a brother's wrath To quench his thirst had such a cup: The bowl a bribed attendant bore; He drank one draught, If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, Call Haroun—he can tell it out. XV."The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 730 In part suppressed, though ne'er subdued, Thou know'st not what in our Divan Can wealth procure for worse than man— Abdallah's honours were obtained By him a brother's murder stained; 'Tis true, the purchase nearly drained His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. Would'st question whence? Survey the waste, And ask the squalid peasant how 740 His gains repay his broiling brow!— Why me the stern Usurper spared, Why thus with me his palace spared, I know not. Shame—regret—remorse— And little fear from infant's force— Besides, adoption as a son By him whom Heaven accorded none, Or some unknown cabal, caprice, Preserved me thus:—but not in peace: He cannot curb his haughty mood, Nor I forgive a father's blood. XVI."Within thy Father's house are foes; Not all who break his bread are true: To these should I my birth disclose, His days-his very hours were few: They only want a heart to lead, A hand to point them to the deed. But Haroun only knows, or knew This tale, whose close is almost nigh: And held that post in his Serai Which holds he here—he saw him die; But what could single slavery do? Avenge his lord? alas! too late; Or save his son from such a fate? He chose the last, and when elate With foes subdued, or friends betrayed, Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, He led me helpless to his gate, And not in vain it seems essayed 770 To save the life for which he prayed. The knowledge of my birth secured From all and each, but most from me; Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. Removed he too from Roumelie To this our Asiatic side, Far from our seats by Danube's tide, With none but Haroun, who retains Such knowledge—and that Nubian feels A Tyrant's secrets are but chains, 780 From which the captive gladly steals, And this and more to me reveals: Such still to guilt just Allah sends— Slaves, tools, accomplices—no friends! XVII."All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; But harsher still my tale must be: Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, Yet I must prove all truth to thee." I saw thee start this garb to see, And long must wear: this GaliongÉe, To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, Is leader of those pirate hordes, Whose laws and lives are on their swords; To hear whose desolating tale Would make thy waning cheek more pale: Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, The hands that wield are not remote; This cup too for the rugged knaves Is filled—once quaffed, they ne'er repine:800 Our Prophet might forgive the slaves; They're only infidels in wine. XVIII."What could I be? Proscribed at home, And taunted to a wish to roam; And listless left—for Giaffir's fear Denied the courser and the spear— Though oft—Oh, Mahomet! how oft!— In full Divan the despot scoffed, As if my weak unwilling hand Refused the bridle or the brand: 810 He ever went to war alone, And pent me here untried—unknown; To Haroun's care with women left, By hope unblest, of fame bereft, While thou—whose softness long endeared, Though it unmanned me, still had cheered— To Brusa's walls for safety sent, Awaited'st there the field's event. Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 820 His captive, though with dread resigning, My thraldom for a season broke, On promise to return before The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 'Tis vain—my tongue can not impart My almost drunkenness of heart, When first this liberated eye Surveyed Earth—Ocean—Sun—and Sky— As if my Spirit pierced them through, And all their inmost wonders knew! 830 One word alone can paint to thee That more than feeling—I was Free! E'en for thy presence ceased to pine; The World—nay, Heaven itself was mine! XIX."The shallop of a trusty Moor Conveyed me from this idle shore; I longed to see the isles that gem Old Ocean's purple diadem: I sought by turns, and saw them all; But when and where I joined the crew,840 With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall, Is done,'twill then be time more meet To tell thee, when the tale's complete. XX."'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, But rough in form, nor mild in mood; And every creed, and every race, With them hath found—may find a place: But open speech, and ready hand, Obedience to their Chief's command; 850 A soul for every enterprise, That never sees with Terror's eyes; Friendship for each, and faith to all, And vengeance vowed for those who fall, Have made them fitting instruments For more than e'en my own intents. And some—and I have studied all Distinguished from the vulgar rank, But chiefly to my council call The wisdom of the cautious Frank:— 860 And some to higher thoughts aspire. The last of Lambro's Anticipated freedom share; And oft around the cavern fire On visionary schemes debate, So let them ease their hearts with prate Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; I have a love for freedom too. Aye! let me like the ocean-Patriarch Or only know on land the Tartar's home! My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are more than cities and Serais to me: Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, Across the desert, or before the gale, Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow! But be the Star that guides the wanderer, Thou! Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark! Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 880 Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call; Soft—as the melody of youthful days, That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise; Dear—as his native song to Exile's ears, For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 890 Blooming as Aden A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, Wait—wave—defend—destroy—at thy command! Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. The Haram's languid years of listless ease Are well resigned for cares—for joys like these: Not blind to Fate, I see, where'er I rove, Unnumbered perils,—but one only love! Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 900 Though Fortune frown, or falser friends betray. How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still! Be but thy soul, like Selim's firmly shown; To thee be Selim's tender as thine own; To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, Blend every thought, do all—but disunite! Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; Friends to each other, foes to aught beside: Yet there we follow but the bent assigned 910 By fatal Nature to man's warring kind: He makes a solitude, and calls it—peace! I like the rest must use my skill or strength, But ask no land beyond my sabre's length: Power sways but by division—her resource The blest alternative of fraud or force! Ours be the last; in time Deceit may come When cities cage us in a social home: There ev'n thy soul might err—how oft the heart 920 Corruption shakes which Peril could not part! And Woman, more than Man, when Death or Woe, Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame— Away suspicion!—not Zuleika's name! But life is hazard at the best; and here No more remains to win, and much to fear: Yes, fear!—the doubt, the dread of losing thee, By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 930 Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail: No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms; Earth—sea alike—our world within our arms! So that those arms cling closer round my neck: The deepest murmur of this lip shall be, No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee! The war of elements no fears impart 940 To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art: There lie the only rocks our course can check; Here moments menace—there are years of wreck! But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape! This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. Few words remain of mine my tale to close; Of thine but one to waft us from our foes; Yea—foes—to me will Giaffir's hate decline? And is not Osman, who would part us, thine? XXI."His head and faith from doubt and death950 Returned in time my guard to save; Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave From isle to isle I roved the while: And since, though parted from my band Too seldom now I leave the land, Ere I have heard and doomed it too: I form the plan—decree the spoil— Tis fit I oftener share the toil. But now too long I've held thine ear;960 Time presses—floats my bark—and here We leave behind but hate and fear. To-morrow Osman with his train Arrives—to-night must break thy chain: And would'st thou save that haughty Bey,— Perchance his life who gave thee thine,— With me this hour away—away! But yet, though thou art plighted mine, Would'st thou recall thy willing vow, Appalled by truths imparted now,970 Here rest I—not to see thee wed: But be that peril on my head!" XXII.Zuleika, mute and motionless, Stood like that Statue of Distress, When, her last hope for ever gone, The Mother hardened into stone; All in the maid that eye could see Was but a younger NiobÉ. But ere her lip, or even her eye, Essayed to speak, or look reply, 980 Beneath the garden's wicket porch Far flashed on high a blazing torch! Another—and another—and another— Far, wide, through every thicket spread The fearful lights are gleaming red; Nor these alone—for each right hand Is ready with a sheathless brand. They part—pursue—return, and wheel With searching flambeau, shining steel; 990 And last of all, his sabre waving, Stern Giaffir in his fury raving: And now almost they touch the cave— Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave? XXIII. |
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