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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, (1)

That heart hath burst

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- 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 (2) 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

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(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!
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!
Woc 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,
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

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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-

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"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,
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,

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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 Żuleika's name. (1)

"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.

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CANTO II.

'T is from her cypress summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word:
'T is 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,

"T is named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!"
Where first it lay that mourning flowe:
Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ;
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!

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