I know him by his jet-black barb; It shall not save him from the death: As rolls the river into ocean, In sable torrent wildly streaming; As the sea-tide's opposing motion, In azure column proudly gleaming, Beats back the current many a rood, In curling foam and mingling flood, While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, Roused by the blast of winter, rave; Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, The lightnings of the waters flash In awful whiteness o'er the shore, That shines and shakes beneath the roar; Thus as the stream and ocean greet, Its echoes on the throbbing ear, The deathshot hissing from afar; More suited to the shepherd's tale: Though few the numbers - theirs the strife, That neither spares nor speaks for life! Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press, For all that Beauty sighs to grant When grappling in the fight they fold Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold: Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith; True foes, once met, are join'd till death! With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; A fragment of his palampore,(30) His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, Fall'n Hassan lies-his unclosed eye Yet lowering on his enemy, As if the hour that seal'd his fate Surviving left his quenchless hate ; As dark as his that bled below. "Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave But his shall be a redder grave; Her spirit pointed well the steel Which taught that felon heart to feel. He call'd the Prophet, but his power Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: He call'd on Alla-but the word Arose unheeded or unheard. Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, The browsing camels' bells are tinkling: His Mother look'd from her lattice highShe saw the dews of eve besprinkling The pasture green beneath her eye, She saw the planets faintly twinkling: "Tis twilight-sure his train is nigh." She could not rest in the garden-bower, But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower: "Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, Nor shrink they from the summer heat; Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift? Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, And now within the valley bends; And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow The Tartar lighted at the gate, His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, Angel of Death! 't is Hassan's cloven crest! A turban (32) carved in coarsest stone, As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, At solemn sound of "Alla Hu!'' (33) Impatient to their halls invite, On him shall glance for ever bright; |