But where is he who wore ? Ye! who would o'er his relics weep, What recks it, though that corse shall lie 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. That heart hath burst - that eye was closed Yea- closed before his own! XXVII. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! Thy destined lord is come too late; The loud Wul-wulleh (2) warn his distant ear? The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! That fearful moment when he left the cave He was thy hope thy joy-thy love thine all (1) A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only. (2) The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent slaves" are the men whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public. And that last thought on him thou could'st not save Sufficed to kill; Burst forth in one wild cry—and all was still. Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave! - That grief- though deep — though fatal - was thy first! Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse! and never dies; Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, XXVIII. Within the place of thousand tombs A single rose is shedding there "Where?" (1) so faint the slightest gale (1) "I came to the place of my birth, and cried,' The friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo answered, Where are they?" From an Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader: it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of "the Pleasures of Memory; a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous; but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur. (1) Might whirl the leaves on high; And yet, though storms and blight assail, in vain To-morrow sees it bloom again! For well may maids of Helle deem To it the livelong night there sings 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 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, And longer yet would weep and wake, But when the day-blush bursts from high And some have been who could believe, Yet harsh be they that blame,) That note so piercing and profound "And airy tongues that syllable men s names." MILTON. For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) and many other instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letters. full CANTO II. 'T is from her cypress summit heard, And hence extended by the billow, "T is named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!" 315 |