The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 3Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron
General
The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 3
Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron
English poetry
With sabre shivered to the hilt,
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt;
Yet strained within the severed hand
Which quivers round that faithless brand;
His turban far behind him rolled,
And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 660
His flowing robe by falchion torn,
And crimson as those clouds of morn
That, streaked with dusky red, portend
The day shall have a stormy end;
A stain on every bush that bore
A fragment of his palampore;[100]
His breast with wounds unnumbered riven,
His back to earth, his face to Heaven,
Fall'n Hassan lies--his unclosed eye
Yet lowering on his enemy, 670
As if the hour that sealed his fate[101]
Surviving left his quenchless hate;
And o'er him bends that foe with brow
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 called the Prophet, but his power
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 680
He called on Alla--but the word
Arose unheeded or unheard.
Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer
Be passed, and thine accorded there?
I watched my time, I leagued with these,
The traitor in his turn to seize;
My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done,
And now I go--but go alone."
* * * * *
* * * * *
The browsing camels' bells are tinkling:[dq]
His mother looked from her lattice high--[102] 690
She 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?
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 700
Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now
Has gained our nearest mountain's brow,
And warily the steep descends,
And now within the valley bends;[dr]
And he bears the gift at his saddle bow--
How could I deem his courser slow?[ds]
Right well my largess shall repay
His welcome speed, and weary way."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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