by Byron
350
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both.
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done;
That vow hath saved more heads than one;
But blench not thou – thy simplest tress
Claims more from me than tenderness;
355
I would not wrong the slenderest hair
That clusters round thy forehead fair,
For all the treasures buried far
Within the caves of Istakar.1
This morning clouds upon me lower’d,
360
Reproaches on my head were shower’d,
And Giaffir almost call’d me coward!
Now I have motive to be brave;
The son of his neglected slave,
Nay, start not, ’twas the term he gave,
365
May show, though little apt to vaunt,
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt.
His son, indeed! – yet, thanks to thee,
Perchance I am, at least shall be;
But let our plighted secret vow
370
Be only known to us as now.
I know the wretch who dares demand
From Giaffir thy reluctant hand;
More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul
Holds not a Musselim’s2 control:
375
Was he not bred in Egripo?3
A viler race let Israel show;
But let that pass – to none be told
Our oath; the rest shall time unfold.
To me and mine leave Osman Bey;
380
I’ve partisans for peril’s day:
Think not I am what I appear;
I’ve arms, and friends, and vengeance near.’
XIII
‘Think not thou art what thou appearest!
My Selim, thou art sadly changed:
385
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest;
But now thou’rt from thyself estranged.
My love thou surely knew’st before,
It ne’er was less, nor can be more.
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay,
390
And hate the night I know not why,
Save that we meet not but by day;
With thee to live, with thee to die,
I dare not to my hope deny:
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss,
395
Like this – and this – no more then this:
For, Alla! sure thy lips are flame:
What fever in thy veins is flushing?
My own have nearly caught the same,
At least I feel my cheek too blushing.
400
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health,
Partake, but never waste thy wealth,
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by,
And lighten half thy poverty;
Do all but close thy dying eye,
405
For that I could not live to try;
To these alone my thoughts aspire:
More can I do? or thou require?
But, Selim, thou must answer why
We need so much of mystery?
410
The cause I cannot dream nor tell,
But be it, since thou say’st ’t is well;
Yet what thou mean’st by ‘arms’ and ‘friends,’
Beyond my weaker sense extends.
I meant that Giaffir should have heard
415
The very vow I plighted thee;
His wrath would not revoke my word:
But surely he would leave me free.
Can this fond wish seem strange in me,
To be what I have ever been?
420
What other hath Zuleika seen
From simple childhood’s earliest hour?
What other can she seek to see
Than thee, companion of her bower,
The partner of her infancy?
425
These cherish’d thoughts with life begun,
Say, why must I no more avow?
What change is wrought to make me shun
The truth; my pride, and thine till now?
To meet the gaze of stranger’s eyes
430
Our law, our creed, our God denies;
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine
At such, our Prophet’s will, repine:
No! happier made by that decree,
He left me all in leaving thee.
435
Deep were my anguish, thus compell’d
To wed with one I ne’er beheld:
This wherefore should I not reveal?
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal?
I know the Pacha’s haughty mood
440
To thee hath never boded good;
And he so often storms at nought,
Allah! forbid that e’er he ought!
And why, I know not, but within
My heart concealment weighs like sin.
445
If then such secrecy be crime,
And such it feels while lurking here;
Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time,
Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear.
Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar,1
My father leaves the mimic war;
450
I tremble now to meet his eye –
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?’
XIV
‘Zuleika – to thy tower’s retreat
Betake thee – Giaffir I can greet:
455
And now with him I fain must prate
Of firmans, impost, levies, state.
There’s fearful news from Danube’s banks,
Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks,
For which the Giaour may give him thanks!
460
Our Sultan hath a shorter way
Such costly triumph to repay.
But, mark me, when the twilight drum
Hath warn’d the troops to food and sleep,
Unto thy cell will Selim come:
465
Then softly from the Haram creep
Where we may wander by the deep:
Our garden-battlements are steep;
Nor these will rash intruder climb
To list our words, or stint our time;
470
And if he doth, I want not steel
Which some have felt, and more may feel.
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more
Than thou hast heard or thought before:
Trust me, Zuleika – fear not me!
475
Thou know’st I hold a Haram key.’
‘Fear thee, my Selim! ne’er till now
Did word like this –’
‘Delay not thou;
I keep the key – and Haroun’s guard
Have some, and hope of more reward.
480
Tonight, Zuleika, thou shalt hear
My tale, my purpose, and my fear:
I am not, love! what I appear.’
Canto the Second
I
The winds are high on Helle’s wave,
As on that night of stormy water
When Love, who sent, forgot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
5
The lonely hope of Sestos‘ daughter.
Oh! when alone along the sky
Her turret-torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale, and breaking foam,
And shrieking sea-birds warn’d him home;
10
And clouds aloft and tides below,
With signs and sounds, forbade to go,
He could not see, he would not hear,
Or sound or sign foreboding fear;
His eye but saw that light of love,
15
The only star it hail’d above;
His
ear but rang with Hero’s song,
‘Ye waves, divide not lovers long!’ –
That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true.
II
20
The winds are high, and Helle’s tide
Rolls darkly heaving to the main;
And Night’s descending shadows hide
That field with blood bedew’d in vain,
The desert of old Priam’s pride;
25
The tombs, sole relics of his reign,
All – save immortal dreams that could beguile
The blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle!
III
Oh! yet – for there my steps have been;
These feet have press’d the sacred shore,
30
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne –
Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn,
To trace again those fields of yore,
Believing every hillock green
Contains no fabled hero’s ashes,
35
And that around the undoubted scene
Thine own ‘broad Hellespont’1 still dashes,
Be long my lot! and cold were he
Who there could gaze denying thee!
IV
The night hath closed on Helle’s stream,
40
Nor yet hath risen on Ida’s hill
That moon, which shone on his high theme:
No warrior chides her peaceful beam,
But conscious shepherds bless it still.
Their flocks are grazing on the mound
45
Of him who felt the Dardan’s arrow:
That mighty heap of gather’d ground
Which Ammon’s son ran proudly round,2
By nations raised, by monarchs crown’d,
Is now a lone and nameless barrow!
50
Within – thy dwelling-place how narrow!
Without – can only strangers breathe
The name of him that was beneath:
Dust long outlasts the storied stone;
But Thou – thy very dust is gone!
V
55
Late, late to-night will Dian cheer
The swain, and chase the boatman’s fear:
Till then – no beacon on the cliff
May shape the course of struggling skiff;
The scatter’d lights that skirt the bay,
60
All, one by one, have died away;
The only lamp of this lone hour
Is glimmering in Zuleika’s tower.
Yes! there is light in that lone chamber,
And o’er her silken Ottoman
65
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber,
O’er which her fairy fingers ran;1
Near these, with emerald rays beset,
(How could she thus that gem forget?)
Her mother’s sainted amulet,2
70
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text,
Could smooth this life, and win the next;
And by her comboloio3 lies
A Koran of illumined dyes;
And many a bright emblazon’d rhyme
75
By Persian scribes redeem’d from time;
And o’er those scrolls, not oft so mute,
Reclines her now neglected lute;
And round her lamp of fretted gold
Bloom flowers in urns of China’s mould;
80
The richest work of Iran’s loom,
And Sheeraz’ tribute of perfume;
All that can eye or sense delight
Are gather’d in that gorgeous room:
But yet it hath an air of gloom.
85
She, of this Peri cell the sprite,
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night?
VI
Wrapt in the darkest sable vest,
Which none save noblest Moslem wear,
To guard from winds of heaven the breast
90
As heaven itself to Selim dear,
With cautious steps the thicket threading,
And starting oft, as through the glade
The gust its hollow moanings made,
Till on the smoother pathway treading,
95
More free her timid bosom beat,
The maid pursued her silent guide;
And though her terror urged retreat,
How could she quit her Selim’s side?
How teach her tender lips to chide?
VII
100
They reach’d at length a grotto, hewn
By nature, but enlarged by art,
Where oft her lute she wont to tune,
And oft her Koran conn’d apart;
And oft in youthful reverie
105
She dream’d what Paradise might be:
Where woman’s parted soul shall go
Her Prophet had disdain’d to show;
But Selim’s mansion was secure,
Nor deem’d she, could he long endure
110
His bower in other worlds of bliss,
Without her, most beloved in this!
Oh! who so dear with him could dwell?
What Houri soothe him half so well?
VIII
Since last she visited the spot
115
Some change seem’d wrought within the grot
It might be only that the night
Disguised things seen by better light:
That brazen lamp but dimly threw
A ray of no celestial hue;
120
But in a nook within the cell
Her eye on stranger objects fell.
There arms were piled, not such as wield
The turban’d Delis in the field;
But brands of foreign blade and hilt,
125
And one was red – perchance with guilt!
Ah! how without can blood be spilt?
A cup too on the board was set
That did not seem to hold sherbet.
What may this mean? she turn’d to see
130
Her Selim – ‘Oh! can this be he?’
IX
His robe of pride was thrown aside,
His brow no high-crown’d turban bore,
But in its stead a shawl of red,
Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore:
135
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem
Where worthy of a diadem,
No longer glitter’d at his waist,
Where pistols unadorn’d were braced;
And from his belt a sabre swung,
140
And from his shoulder loosely hung
The cloak of white, the thin capote
That decks the wandering Candiote;
Beneath – his golden plated vest
Clung like a cuirass to his breast;
145
The greaves below his knee that wound
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound.
But were it not that high command
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand,
All that a careless eye could see
150
In him was some young Galiongée.1
X
‘I said I was not what I seem’d;
And now thou see’st my words were true:
I have a tale thou hast not dream’d,
If sooth – its truth must others rue.
155
My story now ‘twere vain to hide,
I must not see thee Osman’s brid
But had not thine own lips declared
How much of that young heart I shared,
I could not, must not, yet have shown
160
The darker secret of my own.
In this I speak not now of love;
That, let time, truth, and peril prove:
But first – Oh! never wed another –
Zuleika! I am not thy brother!’
XI
165
Oh! not my brother! – yet unsay –
God! am I left alone on earth
To mourn – I dare not curse – the day
That saw my solitary birth?
Oh! thou wilt love me now no more!
170
My sinking heart foreboded ill;
But know me all I was before,
Thy sister – friend – Zuleika still.
Thou led’st me here perchance to kill;
If thou hast cause for vengeance, see!
175
My breast is offer’d – take thy fill!
Far better with the dead to be
Than live thus nothing now to thee:
Perhaps far worse, for now I know
Why Giaffir always seem’d thy foe;
180
And I, alas! am Giaffir’s child,
For whom thou wert contemn’d, reviled.
If not thy sister – would’st thou save
My life, oh! bid me be thy slave!’
XII
‘My slave, Zuleika! – nay, I’m thine:
185
But, gentle love, this transport calm,
Thy lot shall yet be link’d with mine;
I swear it by our Prophet’s shrine,
And be that thought thy sorrow’s balm.
So may the Koran1 verse display’d
190
Upon its steel direct my blade,
In danger’s hour to guard us both,
As I preserve that awful oath!
The name in which thy heart hath prided
Must change; but, my Zuleika, know,
195
That tie is widen’d, not divided,
Although thy Sire’s my deadliest foe.
My father was to Giaffir all
That Selim late was deem’d to thee;
That brother wrought a brother’s fall,
200
But spared, at least, my infancy;
And lull’d me with a vain deceit
That yet a like return may meet.
He rear’d me, not with tender help,
But like the nephew of a Cain;1
205
He watch’d me like a lion’s whelp,
That gnaws and yet may break his chain.
My father’s blood in every vein
Is boiling; but for thy dear sake
No present vengeance will I take;
210
Though here I must no more remain.
But first, beloved Zuleika! hear
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear.
XIII
‘How first their strife to rancour grew,
If love or envy made them foes,
215
It matters little if I knew;
In fiery spirits, slights, though few
And thoughtless, will disturb repose.
In war Abdallah’s arm was strong,
Remember’d yet in Bosniac song,
220
And Paswan’s2 rebel hordes attest
How little love they bore such guest:
His death is all I need relate,
The stern effect of Giaffir’s hate;
