His and are plunging in the bay, Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 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, Whose bullet through the night-air sang, Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 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 "T is rent in twain--one dark-red stain And cast on Lemnos' shore: O'er which their hungry beaks delay, That hand, whose motion is not life, Within a living grave? The bird that tears that prostrate form Yea-closed before his own! 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, 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 lovethine 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 fatalwas 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 dost 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, She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 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?" 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, Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 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 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 bei shower, Nor woos the summer beam: 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 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, And longer yet would weep and wake, 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-fix'd 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, 't is said, Is seen a ghastly turban'd head: And hence extended by the billow, 'Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!" Where first it lay that mourning lower Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale! November, 1813. November 29, 1813. ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE "Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce Summo Invenies?"-Juvenal, Sat. x. "T IS done-but yesterday a King! And arm'd with Kings to strive The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! That with such change can calmly cope? He who of old would rend the oak, And darker fate hast found: The Roman, when his burning heart The Spaniard, when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he neither known But thou-from thy reluctant hand It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And thank'd him for a throne! In humblest guise have shown. If thou hadst died as honor dies. To shame the world again-- Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great 1 The Emperor Charles V Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride; How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,"T is worth thy vanish'd diadem! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That element may meet thy smile- That Earth is now as free! Thou Timour! in his captive's cage What thoughts will there be thine, Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, There was a day--there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thineWhen that immeasurable power Unsated to resign Had been an act of purer fame 1 Dionysius the younger, tyrant of Syracuse, who after his second banishment earned his living by teaching, in Corinth. But thou forsooth must be a king, Where may the wearied eye repose Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one! April 9-10, 1814. April 16, 1814. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY |