Complete Works of Bram Stoker (487 page)

Black Hassan from the harem flies,

Nor bends on woman’s form his eyes;

The unwonted chase each hour employs,

Yet shares he not the hunter’s joys.

Not thus was Hassan wont to fly

When Leila dwelt in his Serai.

Doth Leila there no longer dwell?

That tale can only Hassan tell:

Strange rumours in our city say

Upon that eve she fled away

When Rhamazan’s last sun was set,

And flashing from each minaret

Millions of lamps proclaimed the feast

Of Bairam through the boundless East.

‘Twas then she went as to the bath,

Which Hassan vainly searched in wrath;

For she was flown her master’s rage

In likeness of a Georgian page,

And far beyond the Moslem’s power

Had wronged him with the faithless Giaour.

Somewhat of this had Hassan deemed;

But still so fond, so fair she seemed,

Too well he trusted to the slave

Whose treachery deserved a grave:

And on that eve had gone to mosque,

And thence to feast in his kiosk.

Such is the tale his Nubians tell,

Who did not watch their charge too well;

But others say, that on that night,

By pale Phingari’s trembling light,

The Giaour upon his jet-black steed

Was seen, but seen alone to speed

With bloody spur along the shore,

Nor maid nor page behind him bore.

Her eye’s dark charm ‘twere vain to tell,

But gaze on that of the gazelle,

It will assist thy fancy well;

As large, as languishingly dark,

But soul beamed forth in every spark

That darted from beneath the lid,

Bright as the jewel of Giamschild.

Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say

That form was nought but breathing clay,

By Allah! I would answer nay;

Though on Al-Sirat’s arch I stood,

Which totters o’er the fiery flood,

With Paradise within my view,

And all his Houris beckoning through.

Oh! Who young Leila’s glance could read

And keep that portion of his creed,

Which saith that woman is but dust,

A soulless toy for tyrant’s lust?

On her might Muftis might gaze, and own

That through her eye the Immortal shone;

On her fair cheek’s unfading hue

The young pomegranate’s blossoms strew

Their bloom in blushes ever new;

Her hair in hyacinthine flow,

When left to roll its folds below,

As midst her handmaids in the hall

She stood superior to them all,

Hath swept the marble where her feet

Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth

It fell, and caught one stain of earth.

The cygnet nobly walks the water;

So moved on earth Circassia’s daughter,

The loveliest bird of Franguestan!

As rears her crest the ruffled swan,

And spurns the wave with wings of pride,

When pass the steps of stranger man

Along the banks that bound her tide;

Thus rose fair Leila’s whiter neck:-

Thus armed with beauty would she check

Intrusion’s glance, till folly’s gaze

Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise:

Thus high and graceful as her gait;

Her heart as tender to her mate;

Her mate - stern Hassan, who was he?

Alas! That name was not for thee!

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta’en

With twenty vassals in his train,

Each armed, as best becomes a man,

With arquebuss and ataghan;

The chief before, as decked for war,

Bears in his belt the scimitar

Stain’d with the best of Amaut blood

When in the pass the rebels stood,

And few returned to tell the tale

Of what befell in Parne’s vale.

The pistols which his girdle bore

Were those that once a pasha wore,

Which still, though gemmed and bossed with gold,

Even robbers tremble to behold.

‘Tis said he goes to woo a bride

More true than her who left his side;

The faithless slave that broke her bower,

And - worse than faithless - for a Giaour!

The sun’s last rays are on the hill,

And sparkle in the fountain rill,

Whose welcome waters, cool and clear,

Draw blessings from the mountaineer:

Here may the loitering merchant Greek

Find that repose ‘twere vain to seek

In cities lodged too near his lord,

And trembling for his secret hoard -

Here may he rest where none can see,

In crowds a slave, in deserts free;

And with forbidden wine may stain

The bowl a Moslem must not drain.

The foremost Tartar’s in the gap,

Conspicuous by his yellow cap;

The rest in lengthening line the while

Wind slowly through the long defile:

Above, the mountain rears a peak,

Where vultures whet the thirsty beak,

And theirs may be a feast tonight,

Shall tempt them down ere morrow’s light;

Beneath, a river’s wintry stream

Has shrunk before the summer beam,

And left a channel bleak and bare,

Save shrubs that spring to perish there:

Each side the midway path there lay

Small broken crags of granite grey

By time, or mountain lightning, riven

From summits clad in mists of heaven;

For where is he that hath beheld

The peak of Liakura unveiled?

They reach the grove of pine at last:

‘Bismillah! now the peril’s past;

For yonder view the opening plain,

And there we’ll prick our steeds amain.’

The Chiaus spake, and as he said,

A bullet whistled o’er his head;

The foremost Tartar bites the ground!

Scarce had they time to check the rein,

Swift from their steeds the riders bound;

But three shall never mount again:

Unseen the foes that gave the wound,

The dying ask revenge in vain.

With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent,

Some o’er their courser’s harness leant,

Half sheltered by the steed;

Some fly behind the nearest rock,

And there await the coming shock,

Nor tamely stand to bleed

Beneath the shaft of foes unseen,

Who dare not quit their craggy screen.

Stern Hassan only from his horse

Disdains to light, and keeps his course,

Till fiery flashes in the van

Proclaim too sure the robber-clan

Have well secured the only way

Could now avail the promised prey;

Then curled his very beard with ire,

And glared his eye with fiercer fire:

‘Though far and near the bullets hiss,

I’ve ‘scaped a bloodier hour than this.’

And now the foe their covert quit,

And call his vassals to submit;

But Hassan’s frown and furious word

Are dreaded more than hostile sword,

Nor of his little band a man

Resigned carbine or ataghan,

Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!

In fuller sight, more near and near,

The lately ambushed foes appear,

And, issuing from the grove, advance

Some who on battle-charger prance.

Who leads them on with foreign brand,

Far flashing in his red right hand?

“Tis he! ‘tis he! I know him now;

I know him by his pallid brow;

I know him by the evil eye

That aids his envious treachery;

I know him by his jet-black barb:

Though now arrayed in Arnaut garb

Apostate from his own vile faith,

It shall not save him from the death:

‘Tis he! well met in any hour,

Lost Leila’s love, accursed Giaour!

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,

With waves that madden as they meet -

Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong,

And fate, and fury, drive along.

The bickering sabres’ shivering jar;

And pealing wide or ringing near

Its echoes on the throbbing ear,

The deathshot hissing from afar;

The shock, the shout, the groan of war,

Reverberate along that vale

More suited to the shepherds tale:

Though few the numbers - theirs the strife

That neither spares nor speaks for life!

Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,

To seize and share the dear caress;

But love itself could never pant

For all that beauty sighs to grant

With half the fervour hate bestows

Upon the last embrace of foes,

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 joined till death!

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;

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

His breast with wounds unnumbered riven,

His back to earth, his face to heaven,

Fallen Hassan lies - his unclosed eye

Yet lowering on his enemy,

As if the hour that sealed his fate

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:

He called on Allah - 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:

His mother looked from her lattice high -

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?

Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now

Has gained our nearest mountain’s brow,

And warily the steep descends,

And now within the valley bends;

And he bears the gift at his saddle bow

How could I deem his courser slow?

Right well my largess shall repay

His welcome speed, and weary way.’

The Tartar lighted at the gate,

But scarce upheld his fainting weight!

His swarthy visage spake distress,

But this might be from weariness;

His garb with sanguine spots was dyed,

But these might be from his courser’s side;

He drew the token from his vest -

Angel of Death! ‘tis Hassan’s cloven crest!

His calpac rent - his caftan red -

‘Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed:

Me, not from mercy, did they spare,

But this empurpled pledge to bear.

Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt:

Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.’

A turban carved in coarsest stone,

A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown,

Whereon can now be scarcely read

The Koran verse that mourns the dead,

Point out the spot where Hassan fell

A victim in that lonely dell.

There sleeps as true an Osmanlie

As e’er at Mecca bent the knee;

As ever scorned forbidden wine,

Or prayed with face towards the shrine,

In orisons resumed anew

At solemn sound of ‘Allah Hu!’

Yet died he by a stranger’s hand,

And stranger in his native land;

Yet died he as in arms he stood,

And unavenged, at least in blood.

But him the maids of Paradise

Impatient to their halls invite,

And the dark Heaven of Houris’ eyes

On him shall glance for ever bright;

They come - their kerchiefs green they wave,

And welcome with a kiss the brave!

Who falls in battle ‘gainst a Giaour

Is worthiest an immortal bower.

But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe

Beneath avenging Monkir’s scythe;

And from its torment ‘scape alone

To wander round lost Eblis’ throne;

And fire unquenched, unquenchable,

Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;