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George Gordon Byron - The Bride Of Abydos
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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, 
Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail: 
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 
Their steps till roving, but their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms; 
Earth--sea alike--our world within our arms! 
Ay--let the loud winds whistle o`er the deck, 
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 
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 death 
  Return`d 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, 
No deed they`ve done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom`d 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; 
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 wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 
  Perchance, his life who gave the thine, 
With me this hour away--away! 
  But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall`d by truth imparted now, 
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 harden`d into stone; 
All in the maid that eye could see 
Was but a younger Niobè. 
But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
Essay`d to speak, or look reply, 
Beneath the garden`s wicket porch 
Far flash`d on high a blazing torch! 
Another--and another--and another-- 
"Oh!--no more--yet now my more than brother!" 
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; 
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. 
Dauntless he stood--"`Tis come — soon past--
One kiss, Zuleika--`tis my last: 
  But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash; 
Yet now too few--the attempt were rash: 
  No matter--yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; 
  His pistol`s echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not nor wept, 
  Despair benumb`d her breast and eye!-- 
  "They hear me not, or if they ply 
  Their oars, `tis but to see me die; 
  That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father`s scimitar, 
Thou ne`er hast seen less equal war! 
  Farewell, Zuleika!--Sweet! retire: 
Yet stay within--here linger safe, 
At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not--lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
  Fear`st though for him?--may I expire 
  If in this strife I seek thy sire! 
No--though by him that poison pour`d: 
No--though again he call me coward! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel? 
No--as each crest save his may feel!" 

XXIV. 
One bound he made, and gain`d the sand: 
  Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 
  A gasping head, a quivering trunk: 
Another falls--but round him close 
  A swarming circle of his foes; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 
  And almost met the meeting wave: 
His boat appears--not five oars` length--
His comrades strain with desperate strength-- 
  Oh! are they yet in time to save? 
  His feet the foremost breakers lave; 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray; 
We--wild--unwearied to the strand 
They struggle--now they touch the land! 
They come--`tis but to add to slaughter--
His heart`s best blood is on the water! 

XXV.
Escaped from shot, unharm`d by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
Had Selim won, betray`d, beset, 
To where the strand and billows met: 
There as his last step left the land, 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand-- 
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look 
  For her his eye but sought in vain? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
  Hath doom`d his death, or fix`d his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover`s hope remain! 
His back was to the dashing spray; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay 
When, at the instant, hiss`d the ball-- 
"So may the foes of Giaffir fall!" 
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
Too nearly, deadly aim`d to err? 
`Tis thine--Abdallah`s Murderer! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate: 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling--
If aught his lips essay`d to groan, 
The rushing billows choked 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 shiver`d brand; 
Steps stamp`d; and dash`d into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 
  May there be mark`d; 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 levell`d with the wave-- 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 
    Within a living grave? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb`d the meaner worm: 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter`d limbs composed, 
  And mourn`d above his turban-stone, 
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 warn his distant ear? 
  Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
  The Koran-chanters 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 all-- 
  And that last thought on him thou couldst 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 quivering 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 doth 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, 
      Thy Daughter`s dead! 
  Hope of thine age, thy twilight`s lonely beam, 
  The star hath set that shone on Helle`s stream. 
What quench`d its ray?--the blood that thou hast shed! 
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: 
"Where is my child?" — an Echo answers — "Where?"

XXVIII. 
Within the place of thousand tombs 
  That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms, 
  And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp`d 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 
  Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 
It looks as planted by Despair-- 
  So white--so faint--the slightest gale 
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 vain-- 
  To-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 unshelter`d 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 unmix`d 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. 
`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; 
Lash`d by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave: 
And there by night, reclined, `tis said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban`d head: 
And hence extended by the billow, 
`Tis named the "Pirate-phan tom`s pillow!" 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath flourish`d; flourisheth this hour, 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale; 
As weeping Beauty`s cheek at Sorrow`s tale.
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