Farewell

Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river
And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever;
Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;
Farewell to the miller’s brook and his three bonny daughters;
Farewell to them all while in prison I lie—
In the prison a thrall sees naught but the sky.

Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes;
In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes.
Farewell to the old mill and dash of waters,
To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters.

In the nook, the larger burdock grows near the green willow;
In the flood, round the moor-cock dashes under the billow;
To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters,
To the miller himsel’, and his three bonny daughters.

This poem was written/submitted by John Clare.

Bride Of Abydos

“Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.” — Burns

TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND,
THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED,
WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT,
BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND,

BYRON.

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS

_________

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Know ye the land where cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress’d with perfume,
Wax faint o’er the gardens of G?l in her bloom; [1]
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?
‘Tis the clime of the East; ’tis the land of the Sun —
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? [2]
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

II.

Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparell’d as becomes the brave,
Awaiting each his lord’s behest
To guide his steps, or guard his rest,
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan:
Deep thought was in his aged eye;
And though the face of Mussulman
Not oft betrays to standers by
The mind within, well skill’d to hide
All but unconquerable pride,
His pensive cheek and pondering brow
Did more than he wont avow.

III.

“Let the chamber be clear’d.” — The train disappear’d —
“Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.”
With Giaffir is none but his only son,
And the Nubian awaiting the sire’s award.
“Haroun — when all the crowd that wait
Are pass’d beyond the outer gate,
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld
My child Zuleika’s face unveil’d!)
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower:
Her fate is fix’d this very hour:
Yet not to her repeat my thought;
By me alone be duty taught!”
“Pacha! to hear is to obey.”
No more must slave to despot say —
Then to the tower had ta’en his way,
But here young Selim silence brake,
First lowly rendering reverence meet!
And downcast look’d, and gently spake,
Still standing at the Pacha’s feet:
For son of Moslem must expire,
Ere dare to sit before his sire!

“Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide
My sister, or her sable guide,
Know — for the fault, if fault there be,
Was mine — then fall thy frowns on me —
So lovelily the morning shone,
That — let the old and weary sleep —
I could not; and to view alone
The fairest scenes of land and deep,
With none to listen and reply
To thoughts with which my heart beat high
Were irksome — for whate’er my mood,
In sooth I love not solitude;
I on Zuleika’s slumber broke,
And as thou knowest that for me
Soon turns the Haram’s grating key,
Before the guardian slaves awoke
We to the cypress groves had flown,
And made earth, main, and heaven our own!
There linger’d we, beguil’d too long
With Mejnoun’s tale, or Sadi’s song, [3]
Till I, who heard the deep tambour [4]
Beat thy Divan’s approaching hour,
To thee, and to my duty true,
Warn’d by the sound, to greet thee flew:
But there Zuleika wanders yet —
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget
That none can pierce that secret bower
But those who watch the women’s tower.”

IV.

“Son of a slave” — the Pacha said —
“From unbelieving mother bred,
Vain were a father’s hope to see
Aught that beseems a man in thee.
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow,
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed,
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed,
Must pore where babbling waters flow,
And watch unfolding roses blow.
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow
Thy listless eyes so much admire,
Would lend thee something of his fire!
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent;
Nay, tamely view old Stamboul’s wall
Before the dogs of Moscow fall,
Nor strike one stroke for life or death
Against the curs of Nazareth!
Go — let thy less than woman’s hand
Assume the distaff — not the brand.
But, Haroun! — to my daughter speed:
And hark — of thine own head take heed —
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing —
Thou see’st yon bow — it hath a string!”

V.

No sound from Selim’s lip was heard,
At least that met old Giaffir’s ear,
But every frown and every word
Pierced keener than a Christian’s sword.
“Son of a slave! — reproach’d with fear!
Those gibes had cost another dear.
Son of a slave! and who my sire?”
Thus held his thoughts their dark career,
And glances ev’n of more than ire
Flash forth, then faintly disappear.
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son
And started; for within his eye
He read how much his wrath had done;
He saw rebellion there begun:
“Come hither, boy — what, no reply?
I mark thee — and I know thee too;
But there be deeds thou dar’st not do:
But if thy beard had manlier length,
And if thy hand had skill and strength,
I’d joy to see thee break a lance,
Albeit against my own perchance.”

As sneeringly these accents fell,
On Selim’s eye he fiercely gazed:
That eye return’d him glance for glance,
And proudly to his sire’s was raised,
Till Giaffir’s quail’d and shrunk askance —
And why — he felt, but durst not tell.
“Much I misdoubt this wayward boy
Will one day work me more annoy:
I never loved him from his birth,
And — but his arm is little worth,
And scarcely in the chase could cope
With timid fawn or antelope,
Far less would venture into strife
Where man contends for fame and life —
I would not trust that look or tone:
No — nor the blood so near my own.

That blood — he hath not heard — no more —
I’ll watch him closer than before.
He is an Arab to my sight, [5]
Or Christian crouching in the fight —
But hark! — I hear Zuleika’s voice;
Like Houris’ hymn it meets mine ear:
She is the offspring of my choice;
Oh! more than ev’n her mother dear,
With all to hope, and nought to fear —
My Peri! — ever welcome here!
Sweet, as the desert fountain’s wave,
To lips just cool’d in time to save —
Such to my longing sight art thou;
Nor can they waft to Mecca’s shrine
More thanks for life, than I for thine,
Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now.”

VI.

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind,
When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling,
Whose image then was stamp’d upon her mind —
But once beguiled — and evermore beguiling;
Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision
To Sorrow’s phantom-peopled slumber given,
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian,
And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven;
Soft, as the memory of buried love;
Pure as the prayer which Childhood wafts above,
Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief,
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief.

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of Beauty’s heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess
The might — the majesty of Loveliness?
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone
The nameless charms unmark’d by her alone;
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face, [6]
The heart whose softness harmonised the whole —
And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

Her graceful arms in meekness bending
Across her gently-budding breast;
At one kind word those arms extending
To clasp the neck of him who blest
His child caressing and carest,
Zuleika came — Giaffir felt
His purpose half within him melt;
Not that against her fancied weal
His heart though stern could ever feel;
Affection chain’d her to that heart;
Ambition tore the links apart.

VII.

“Zuleika! child of gentleness!
How dear this very day must tell,
When I forget my own distress,
In losing what I love so well,
To bid thee with another dwell:
Another! and a braver man
Was never seen in battle’s van.
We Moslems reck not much of blood;
But yet the line of Carasman [7]
Unchanged, unchangeable, hath stood
First of the bold Timariot bands
That won and well can keep their lands.
Enough that he who comes to woo
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou:
His years need scarce a thought employ:
I would not have thee wed a boy.
And thou shalt have a noble dower:
And his and my united power
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman,
Which others tremble but to scan,
And teach the messenger what fate
The bearer of such boon may wait, [8]
And now thy know’st thy father’s will;
All that thy sex hath need to know:
‘Twas mine to teach obedience still —
The way to love, thy lord may show.”

VIII.

In silence bow’d the virgin’s head;
And if her eye was fill’d with tears
That stifled feeling dare not shed,
And changed her cheek to pale to red,
And red to pale, as through her ears
Those winged words like arrows sped,
What could such be but maiden fears?
So bright the tear in Beauty’s eye,
Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness,
Even Pity scarce can wish it less!

Whate’er it was the sire forgot;
Or if remember’d, mark’d it not;
Thrice clapp’d his hands, and call’d his steed, [9]
Resign’d his gem-adorn’d chibouque, [10]
And mounting featly for the mead,
With Maugrabee [11] and Mamaluke,
His way amid his Delis took, [12]
To witness many an active deed
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed.
The Kislar only and his Moors
Watch well the Haram’s massy doors.

IX.

His head was leant upon his hand,
His eye look’d o’er the dark blue water
That swiftly glides and gently swells
Between the winding Dardanelles;
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand,
Nor even his Pacha’s turban’d band
Mix in the game of mimic slaughter,
Careering cleave the folded felt [13]
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt;
Nor mark’d the javelin-darting crowd,
Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud [14] —
He thought but of old Giaffir’s daughter!

X.

No word from Selim’s bosom broke;
One sigh Zuleika’s thought bespoke:
Still gazed he through the lattice grate,
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate.
To him Zuleika’s eye was turn’d,
But little from his aspect learn’d;
Equal her grief, yet not the same:
Her heart confess’d a gentler flame:
But yet that heart, alarm’d, or weak,
She knew not why, forbade to speak.
Yet speak she must — but when essay?
“How strange he thus should turn away!
Not thus we e’er before have met;
Not thus shall be our parting yet.”
Thrice paced she slowly through the room,
And watched his eye — it still was fix’d:
She snatch’d the urn wherein was mix’d
The Persian Atar-g?l’s perfume, [15]
And sprinkled all its odours o’er
The pictured roof and marble floor: [16]
The drops, that through his glittering vest
The playful girl’s appeal address’d,
Unheeded o’er his bosom flew,
As if that breast were marble too.
“What sullen yet? it must not be —
Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee!”
She saw in curious order set
The fairest flowers of Eastern land —
“He loved them once; may touch them yet
If offer’d by Zuleika’s hand.”
The childish thought was hardly breathed
Before the Rose was pluck’d and wreathed;
The next fond moment saw her seat
Her fairy form at Selim’s feet:
“This rose to calm my brother’s cares
A message from the Bulbul bears; [17]
It says to-night he will prolong
For Selim’s ear his sweetest song;
And though his note is somewhat sad,
He’ll try for once a strain more glad,
With some faint hope his alter’d lay
May sing these gloomy thoughts away.

XI.

“What! not receive my foolish flower?
Nay then I am indeed unblest:
On me can thus thy forehead lower?
And know’st thou not who loves thee best?
Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest!
Say is it me thou hat’st or fearest?
Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest,
Since words of mine, and songs must fail
Ev’n from my fabled nightingale.
I knew our sire at times was stern,
But this from thee had yet to learn:
Too well I know he loves thee not;
But is Zuleika’s love forgot?
Ah! deem I right? the Pacha’s plan —
This kinsman Bey of Carasman
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine:
If so, I swear by Mecca’s shrine,
If shrines that ne’er approach allow
To woman’s step admit her vow,
Without thy free consent, command,
The Sultan should not have my hand!
Think’st though that I could bear to part
With thee, and learn to halve my heart?
Ah! were I sever’d from thy side,
Where were thy friend — and who my guide?
Years have not seen, Time shall not see
The hour that tears my soul from thee:
Even Azrael, [18] from his deadly quiver
When flies that shaft, and fly it must,
That parts all else, shall doom for ever
Our hearts to undivided dust!”

XII.

He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt;
He raised the maid from where she knelt;
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt;
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt.
As the streams late conceal’d
By the fringe of its willows,
When it rushes reveal’d
In the light of its billows;
As the bolt bursts on high
From the black cloud that bound it,
Flash’d the soul of that eye
Through the long lashes round it.
A war-horse at the trumpet’s sound,
A lion roused by heedless hound,
A tyrant waked to sudden strife
By graze of ill-directed knife,
Starts not to more convulsive life
Than he, who heard that vow, display’d,
And all, before repress’d, betray’d:

“Now thou art mine, for ever mine,
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign;
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath,
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;
I would not wrong the slenderest hair
That clusters round thy forehead fair,
For all the treasures buried far
Within the caves of Istakar. [19]
This morning clouds upon me lower’d,
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 —
May shew, 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
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’s control: [20]
Was he not bred in Egripo? [21]
A viler race let Israel show!
But let that pass — to none be told
Our oath; the rest let time unfold.
To me and mine leave Osman Bey;
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:
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,
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,
Like this — and this — no more than this;
For, Allah! 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.
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,
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?
The cause I cannot dream nor tell,
But be it, since thou say’st ’tis well;
Yet what thou mean’st by ‘arms’ and ‘friends,’
Beyond my weaker sense extends.
I mean that Giaffir should have heard
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?
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?
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
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.
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
To thee hath never boded good:
And he so often storms at naught,
Allah! forbid that e’er he ought!
And why I know not, but within
My heart concealment weighs like sin.
If then such secresy 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, [22]
My father leaves the mimic war:
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:
And now with him I fain must prate
Of firmans, imposts, levies, state.
There’s fearful news from Danube’s banks,
Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks,
For which the Giaour may give him thanks!
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:
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;
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!
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.
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,
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;
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 the light of love,
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.

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;
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,
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,
And that around the undoubted scene
Thine own “broad Hellespont” still dashes, [23]
Be long my lot! and cold were he
Who there could gaze denying thee!

IV.

The night hath closed on Helle’s stream,
Nor yet hath risen on Ida’s hill
That moon, which shoon on his high theme:
No warrior chides her peaceful beam,
But conscious shepherds bless it still.
Their flocks are grazing on the mound
Of him who felt the Dardan’s arrow;
That mighty heap of gather’d ground
Which Ammon’s son ran proudly round, [24]
By nations raised, by monarchs crown’d,
Is now a lone and nameless barrow!
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.

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,
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
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber,
O’er which her fairy fingers ran; [25]
Near these, with emerald rays beset,
(How could she thus that gem forget?)
Her mother’s sainted amulet, [26]
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text,
Could smooth this life, and win the next;
And by her Comboloio lies [27]
A Koran of illumined dyes;
And many a bright emblazon’d rhyme
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;
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.
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 Moslems wear,
To guard from winds of heaven the breast
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,
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.

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
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
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
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:
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,
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
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:
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem
Were worthy of a diadem,
No longer glitter’d at his waist,
Where pistols unadorn’d were braced;
And from his belt a sabre swung,
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
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
In him was some young Galiong?e. [28]

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.
My story now ’twere vain to hide,
I must not see thee Osman’s bride:
But had not thine own lips declared
How much of that young heart I shared,
I could not, must not, yet have shown
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.

“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!
My sinking heart foreboded ill;
But know me all I was before,
Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still.
Thou ledd’st me hear perchance to kill;
If thou hast cause for vengeance see
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;
And I, alas! am Giaffir’s child,
Form whom thou wert contemn’d, reviled.
If not thy sister — wouldst thou save
My life, oh! bid me be thy slave!”

XII.

“My slave, Zuleika! — nay, I’m thine;
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 Koran verse display’d [29]
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,
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,
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; [30]
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;
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,
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,
And Paswan’s rebel hordes attest [31]
How little love they bore such guest:
His death is all I need relate,
The stern effect of Giaffir’s hate;
And how my birth disclosed to me,
Whate’er beside it makes, hath made me free.

XIV.

“When Paswan, after years of strife,
At last for power, but first for life,
In Widdin’s walls too proudly sate,
Our Pachas rallied round the state;
Nor last nor least in high command,
Each brother led a separate band;
They gave their horse-tails to the wind, [32]
And mustering in Sophia’s plain
Their tents were pitch’d, their posts assign’d;
To one, alas! assign’d in vain!
What need of words? the deadly bowl,
By Giaffir’s order drugg’d and given,
With venom subtle as his soul,
Dismiss’d Abdallah’s hence to heaven.
Reclined and feverish in the bath,
He, when the hunter’s sport was up,
But little deem’d a brother’s wrath
To quench his thirst had such a cup:
The bowl a bribed attendant bore;
He drank one draught, and nor needed more! [33]
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt,
Call Haroun — he can tell it out.

XV.

“The deed once done, and Paswan’s feud
In part suppress’d, though ne’er subdued,
Abdallah’s Pachalic was gain’d: —
Thou know’st not what in our Divan
Can wealth procure for worse than man —
Abdallah’s honours were obtain’d
By him a brother’s murder stain’d;
‘Tis true, the purchase nearly drain’d
His ill got treasure, soon replaced.
Wouldst question whence? Survey the waste,
And ask the squalid peasant how
His gains repay his broiling brow! —
Why me the stern usurper spared,
Why thus with me the palace shared,
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse,
And little fear from infant’s force;
Besides, adoption of a son
Of him whom Heaven accorded none,
Or some unknown cabal, caprice,
Preserved me thus; but not in peace;
He cannot curb his haughty mood,
Nor I forgive a father’s blood!

XVI.

“Within thy father’s house are foes;
Not all who break his bread are true:
To these should I my birth disclose,
His days, his very hours, were few:
They only want a heart to lead,
A hand to point them to the deed.
But Haroun only knows — or knew —
This tale, whose close is almost nigh:
He in Abdallah’s palace grew,
And held that post in his Serai
Which holds he here — he saw him die:
But what could single slavery do?
Avenge his lord? alas! too late;
Or save his son from such a fate?
He chose the last, and when elate
With foes subdued, or friends betray’d,
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate,
He led me helpless to his gate,
And not in vain it seems essay’d
To save the life for which he pray’d.
The knowledge of my birth secured
From all and each, but most from me;
Thus Giaffir’s safety was insured.
Removed he too from Roumelie
To this our Asiatic side,
Far from our seat by Danube’s tide,
With none but Haroun, who retains
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels
A tyrant’s secrets are but chains,
From which the captive gladly steals,
And this and more to me reveals:
Such still to guilt just Allah sends —
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends!

XVII.

“All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds;
But harsher still my tale must be:
Howe’er my tongue thy softness wounds,
Yet I must prove all truth to thee.
I saw thee start this garb to see,
Yet is it one I oft have worn,
And long must wear: this Galiong?e,
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn,
Is leader of those pirate hordes,
Whose laws and lives are on their swords;
To hear whose desolating tale
Would make thy waning cheek more pale:
Those arms thou see’st my band have brought,
The hands that wield are not remote;
This cup too for the rugged knaves
Is fill’d — once quaff’d, they ne’er repine:
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves;
They’re only infidels in wine!

XVIII.

“What could I be? Proscribed at home,
And taunted to a wish to roam;
And listless left — for Giaffir’s fear
Denied the courser and the spear —
Though oft — oh, Mohammed! how oft! —
In full Divan the despot scoff’d,
As if my weak unwilling hand
Refused the bridle or the brand:
He ever went to war alone,
And pent me here untried — unknown;
To Haroun’s care with women left,
By hope unblest, of fame bereft.
While thou — whose softness long endear’d,
Though it unmann’d me, still had cheer’d —
To Brusa’s walls for safety sent,
Awaited’st there the field’s event.
Haroun, who saw my spirit pining
Beneath inaction’s sluggish yoke,
His captive, though with dread, resigning,
My thraldom for a season broke,
On promise to return before
The day when Giaffir’s charge was o’er.
‘Tis vain — my tongue can not impart
My almost drunkenness of heart,
When first this liberated eye
Survey’d Earth, Ocean, Sun and Sky,
As if my spirit pierced them through,
And all their inmost wonders knew!
One word alone can paint to thee
That more than feeling — I was Free!
Ev’n for thy presence ceased to pine;
The World — nay — Heaven itself was mine!

XIX.

“The shallop of a trusty Moor
Convey’d me from this idle shore;
I long’d to see the isles that gem
Old Ocean’s purple diadem:
I sought by turns, and saw them all: [34]
But when and where I join’d the crew,
With whom I’m pledged to rise or fall,
When all that we design to do
Is done, ’twill then be time more meet
To tell thee, when the tale’s complete.

XX.

“‘Tis true, they are a lawless brood,
But rough in form, nor mild in mood;
With them hath found — may find — a place:
But open speech, and ready hand,
Obedience to their chief’s command;
A soul for every enterprise,
That never sees with terror’s eyes;
Friendship for each, and faith to all,
And vengeance vow’d for those who fall,
Have made them fitting instruments
For more than ev’n my own intents.
And some — and I have studied all
Distinguish’d from the vulgar rank,
But chiefly to my council call
The wisdom of the cautious Frank —
And some to higher thoughts aspire,
The last of Lambro’s patriots there [35]
Anticipated freedom share;
And oft around the cavern fire
On visionary schemes debate,
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. [36]
So let them ease their hearts with prate
Of equal rights, which man ne’er knew;
I have a love of freedom too.
Ay! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam, [37]
Or only known on land the Tartar’s home! [38]
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea,
Are more than cities and Serais to me:
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail,
Across the desert, or before the gale,
Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow!
But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou!
Thou, my Zuleika! share and bless my bark;
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark!
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife,
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life!
The evening beam that smiles the cloud away,
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
Blest — as the Muezzin’s strain from Mecca’s wall
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call;
Soft — as the melody of youthful days,
That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise;
Dear — as his native song to exile’s ears,
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears.
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. [39]
A thousand swords, with Selim’s heart and hand,
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command!
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side,
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride.
The Haram’s languid years of listless ease
Are well resign’d for cares — for joys like these:
Not blind to fate, I see, where’er I rove,
Unnumber’d perils — but one only love!
Yet well my toils shall that fond beast repay,
Though fortune frown or falser friends betray.
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill,
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still!
Be but thy soul, like Selim’s, firmly shown;
To thee be Selim’s tender as thine own;
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight,
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite!
Once free, ’tis mine our horde again to guide;
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside:
Yet there we follow but the bent assign’d
By fatal Nature to man’s warring kind:
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace!
I like the rest must use my skill or strength,
But ask no land beyond my sabre’s length:
Power sways but by division — her resource
The blest alternative of fraud or force!
Ours be the last; in time deceit may come
When cities cage us in a social home:
There ev’n thy soul might err — how oft the heart
Corruption shakes which peril could not part!
And woman, more than man, when death or woe,
Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low,
Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame —
Away suspicion! — not Zuleika’s name!
But life is hazard at the best; and here
No more remains to win, and much to fear:
Yes, fear! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee,
By Osman’s power, and Giaffir’s stern decree.
That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale,
Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail:
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest,
Their steps till roving, but their hearts at rest.
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms;
Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms!
Ay — let the loud winds whistle o’er the deck,
So that those arms cling closer round my neck:
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee!
The war of elements no fears impart
To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art:
There lie the only rocks our course can check;
Here moments menace — there are years of wreck!
But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror’s shape!
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape.
Few words remain of mine my tale to close:
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes;
Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir’s hate decline?
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine?

XXI.

“His head and faith from doubt and death
Return’d in time my guard to save;
Few heard, none told, that o’er the wave
From isle to isle I roved the while:
And since, though parted from my band
Too seldom now I leave the land,
No deed they’ve done, nor deed shall do,
Ere I have heard and doom’d it too:
I form the plan, decree the spoil,
‘Tis fit I oftener share the toil.
But now too long I’ve held thine ear;
Time presses, floats my bark, and here
We leave behind but hate and fear.
To-morrow Osman with his train
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain:
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey,
Perchance, his life who gave the thine,
With me this hour away — away!
But yet, though thou art plighted mine,
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow,
Appall’d by truth imparted now,
Here rest I — not to see thee wed:
But be that peril on my head!”

XXII.

Zuleika, mute and motionless,
Stood like that statue of distress,
When, her last hope for ever gone,
The mother harden’d into stone;
All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niob?.
But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Essay’d to speak, or look reply,
Beneath the garden’s wicket porch
Far flash’d on high a blazing torch!
Another — and another — and another —
“Oh! — no more — yet now my more than brother!”
Far, wide, through every thicket spread,
The fearful lights are gleaming red;
Nor these alone — for each right hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand.
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau, shining steel;
And last of all, his sabre waving,
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:
And now almost they touch the cave —
Oh! must that grot be Selim’s grave?

XXIII.

Dauntless he stood — “‘Tis come — soon past —
One kiss, Zuleika — ’tis my last:
But yet my band not far from shore
May hear this signal, see the flash;
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash:
No matter — yet one effort more.”
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept;
His pistol’s echo rang on high,
Zuleika started not nor wept,
Despair benumb’d her breast and eye! —
“They hear me not, or if they ply
Their oars, ’tis but to see me die;
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh.
Then forth my father’s scimitar,
Thou ne’er hast seen less equal war!
Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire:
Yet stay within — here linger safe,
At thee his rage will only chafe.
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance
Some erring blade or ball should glance.
Fear’st though for him? — may I expire
If in this strife I seek thy sire!
No — though by him that poison pour’d:
No — though again he call me coward!
But tamely shall I meet their steel?
No — as each crest save his may feel!”

XXIV.

One bound he made, and gain’d the sand:
Already at his feet hath sunk
The foremost of the prying band,
A gasping head, a quivering trunk:
Another falls — but round him close
A swarming circle of his foes;
From right to left his path he cleft,
And almost met the meeting wave:
His boat appears — not five oars’ length —
His comrades strain with desperate strength —
Oh! are they yet in time to save?
His feet the foremost breakers lave;
His band are plunging in the bay,
Their sabres glitter through the spray;
We — wild — unwearied to the strand
They struggle — now they touch the land!
They come — ’tis but to add to slaughter —
His heart’s best blood is on the water!

XXV.

Escaped from shot, unharm’d by steel,
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel,
Had Selim won, betray’d, beset,
To where the strand and billows met:
There as his last step left the land,
And the last death-blow dealt his hand —
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look
For her his eye but sought in vain?
That pause, that fatal gaze he took,
Hath doom’d his death, or fix’d his chain.
Sad proof, in peril and in pain,
How late will Lover’s hope remain!
His back was to the dashing spray;
Behind, but close, his comrades lay
When, at the instant, hiss’d the ball —
“So may the foes of Giaffir fall!”
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang?
Whose bullet through the night-air sang,
Too nearly, deadly aim’d to err?
‘Tis thine — Abdallah’s Murderer!
The father slowly rued thy hate,
The son hath found a quicker fate:
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling —
If aught his lips essay’d to groan,
The rushing billows choked the tone!

XXVI.

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;
Few trophies of the fight are there:
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay
Are silent; but some signs of fray
That strand of strife may bear,
And fragments of each shiver’d brand;
Steps stamp’d; and dash’d into the sand
The print of many a struggling hand
May there be mark’d; nor far remote
A broken torch, an oarless boat;
And tangled on the weeds that heap
The beach where shelving to the deep
There lies a white capote!
‘Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain
The wave yet ripples o’er in vain:
But where is he who wore?
Ye! who would o’er his relics weep,
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sig?um’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, [40]
That heart hath burst — 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 warn his distant ear? [41]
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 —
And that last thought on him thou couldst 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!
Woe 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,
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 — “Where?” [42]

XVIII.

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 —
So white — so faint — the slightest gale
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,
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 Zuleika’s name. [43]
‘Tis from her cypress’ summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word;
‘Tis 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 fixed 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, ’tis said,
Is seen a ghastly turban’d head:
And hence extended by the billow,
‘Tis named the “Pirate-phantom’s pillow!”
Where first it lay that mourning flower
Hath flourish’d; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;
As weeping Beauty’s cheek at Sorrow’s tale.

This poem was written/submitted by Lord Byron.

The Death Of Fred Marsden, The American Playwright

A pathetic tragedy I will relate,
Concerning poor Fred. Marsden’s fate,
Who suffocated himself by the fumes of gas,
On the 18th of May, and in the year of 1888, alas!

Fred. Marsden was a playwright, the theatrical world knows,
And was highly esteemed by the people, and had very few foes;
And in New York, in his bedroom, he took his life away,
And was found by his servant William in his bedroom where he lay.

The manner in which he took his life : first he locked the door,
Then closed down the window, and a sheet to shreds he tore
And then stopped the keyholes and chinks through which air might come,
Then turned on the single gas-burner, and soon the deed was done.

About seven o’clock in the evening he bade his wife good-night,
And she left him, smoking, in his room, thinking all was right,
But when morning came his daughter said she smelled gas,
Then William, his servant, called loudly on him, but no answer, alas!

Then suspicion flashed across William’s brain, and he broke open the door,
Then soon the family were in a state of uproar,
For the room was full of gas, and Mr Marsden quite dead,
And a more kind-hearted father never ate of the world’s bread.

And by his kindness he spoiled his only child,
His pretty daughter Blanche, which made him wild;
For some time he thought her an angel, she was so very civil,
But she dishonoured herself, and proved herself a devil.

Her father idolised her, and on her spared no expense,
And the kind-hearted father gave her too much indulgence,
Because evening parties and receptions were got up for her sake,
Besides, he bought her a steam yacht to sail on Schroon Lake.

His means he lavished upon his home and his wife,
And he loved his wife and daughter as dear as his life;
But Miss Blanche turned to folly, and wrecked their home through strife,
And through Miss Marsden’s folly her father took his life.

She wanted to ride, and her father bought her a horse,
And by giving her such indulgences, in morals she grew worse;
And by her immoral actions she broke her father’s heart;
And, in my opinion, she has acted a very ungrateful part.

At last she fled from her father’s house, which made him mourn,
Then the crazy father went after her and begged her to return,
But she tore her father’s beard, and about the face beat him,
Then fled to her companions in evil, and thought it no sin.

Then her father sent her one hundred dollars, and found her again,
And he requested her to come home, but it was all in vain;
For his cruel daughter swore at him without any dread,
And, alas! next morning, he was found dead in his bed.

And soon theatrical circles were shocked to learn,
Of the sudden death of genial Fred Marsden,
Whose house had been famous for its hospitality,
To artists, litterateurs, and critics of high and low degree.

And now dear Mrs Marsden is left alone to mourn
The loss of her loving husband, whom to her will ne’er return;
But I hope God will be kind to her in her bereavement,
And open her daughter’s eyes, and make her repent

For being the cause of her father’s death, the generous Fred,
Who oft poor artists and mendicants has fed;
But, alas! his bounties they will never receive more,
Therefore poor artists and mendicants will his loss deplore.

Therefore, all ye kind parents of high and low degree,
I pray ye all, be advised by me,
And never pamper your children in any way,
Nor idolise them, for they are apt to go astray,

And treat ye, like pretty Blanche Marsden,
Who by her folly has been the death of one of the finest men;
So all kind parents, be warned by me,
And remember always this sad Tragedy!

This poem was written/submitted by William Topaz McGonagall.

The Farewell

Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage

Gone, gone, — sold and gone
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings
Where the noisome insect stings
Where the fever demon strews
Poison with the falling dews
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air;
Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia’s hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, — sold and gone
To the rice-swamp dank and lone
There no mother’s eye is near them,
There no mother’s ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash
Shall a mother’s kindness bless them
Or a mother’s arms caress them.
Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia’s hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go
Faint with toil, and racked with pain
To their cheerless homes again,
There no brother’s voice shall greet them
There no father’s welcome meet them.
Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia’s hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood’s place of play;
From the cool sprmg where they drank;
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank;
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there;
Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia’s hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler’s prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant’s power is o’er
And the fetter galls no more!
Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
From Virginia’s hills and waters
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
By the holy love He beareth;
By the bruised reed He spareth;
Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother’s love.
Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia’s hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

This poem was written/submitted by John Greenleaf Whittier.

September On Jessore Road

Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road–long bamboo huts
Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts

Millions of fathers in rain
Millions of mothers in pain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of sisters nowhere to go

One Million aunts are dying for bread
One Million uncles lamenting the dead
Grandfather millions homeless and sad
Grandmother millions silently mad

Millions of daughters walk in the mud
Millions of children wash in the flood
A Million girls vomit & groan
Millions of families hopeless alone

Millions of souls nineteenseventyone
homeless on Jessore road under grey sun
A million are dead, the million who can
Walk toward Calcutta from East Pakistan

Taxi September along Jessore Road
Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load
past watery fields thru rain flood ruts
Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts

Wet processions Families walk
Stunted boys big heads don’t talk
Look bony skulls & silent round eyes
Starving black angels in human disguise

Mother squats weeping & points to her sons
Standing thin legged like elderly nuns
small bodied hands to their mouths in prayer
Five months small food since they settled there

on one floor mat with small empty pot
Father lifts up his hands at their lot
Tears come to their mother’s eye
Pain makes mother Maya cry

Two children together in palmroof shade
Stare at me no word is said
Rice ration, lentils one time a week
Milk powder for warweary infants meek

No vegetable money or work for the man
Rice lasts four days eat while they can
Then children starve three days in a row
and vomit their next food unless they eat slow.

On Jessore road Mother wept at my knees
Bengali tongue cried mister Please
Identity card torn up on the floor
Husband still waits at the camp office door

Baby at play I was washing the flood
Now they won’t give us any more food
The pieces are here in my celluloid purse
Innocent baby play our death curse

Two policemen surrounded by thousands of boys
Crowded waiting their daily bread joys
Carry big whistles & long bamboo sticks
to whack them in line They play hungry tricks

Breaking the line and jumping in front
Into the circle sneaks one skinny runt
Two brothers dance forward on the mud stage
Teh gaurds blow their whistles & chase them in rage

Why are these infants massed in this place
Laughing in play & pushing for space
Why do they wait here so cheerful & dread
Why this is the House where they give children bread

The man in the bread door Cries & comes out
Thousands of boys and girls Take up his shout
Is it joy? is it prayer? “No more bread today”
Thousands of Children at once scream “Hooray!”

Run home to tents where elders await
Messenger children with bread from the state
No bread more today! & and no place to squat
Painful baby, sick shit he has got.

Malnutrition skulls thousands for months
Dysentery drains bowels all at once
Nurse shows disease card Enterostrep
Suspension is wanting or else chlorostrep

Refugee camps in hospital shacks
Newborn lay naked on mother’s thin laps
Monkeysized week old Rheumatic babe eye
Gastoenteritis Blood Poison thousands must die

September Jessore Road rickshaw
50,000 souls in one camp I saw
Rows of bamboo huts in the flood
Open drains, & wet families waiting for food

Border trucks flooded, food cant get past,
American Angel machine please come fast!
Where is Ambassador Bunker today?
Are his Helios machinegunning children at play?

Where are the helicopters of U.S. AID?
Smuggling dope in Bangkok’s green shade.
Where is America’s Air Force of Light?
Bombing North Laos all day and all night?

Where are the President’s Armies of Gold?
Billionaire Navies merciful Bold?
Bringing us medicine food and relief?
Napalming North Viet Nam and causing more grief?

Where are our tears? Who weeps for the pain?
Where can these families go in the rain?
Jessore Road’s children close their big eyes
Where will we sleep when Our Father dies?

Whom shall we pray to for rice and for care?
Who can bring bread to this shit flood foul’d lair?
Millions of children alone in the rain!
Millions of children weeping in pain!

Ring O ye tongues of the world for their woe
Ring out ye voices for Love we don’t know
Ring out ye bells of electrical pain
Ring in the conscious of America brain

How many children are we who are lost
Whose are these daughters we see turn to ghost?
What are our souls that we have lost care?
Ring out ye musics and weep if you dare–

Cries in the mud by the thatch’d house sand drain
Sleeps in huge pipes in the wet shit-field rain
waits by the pump well, Woe to the world!
whose children still starve in their mother’s arms curled.

Is this what I did to myself in the past?
What shall I do Sunil Poet I asked?
Move on and leave them without any coins?
What should I care for the love of my loins?

What should we care for our cities and cars?
What shall we buy with our Food Stamps on Mars?
How many millions sit down in New York
& sup this night’s table on bone & roast pork?

How many millions of beer cans are tossed
in Oceans of Mother? How much does She cost?
Cigar gasolines and asphalt car dreams
Stinking the world and dimming star beams–

Finish the war in your breast with a sigh
Come tast the tears in your own Human eye
Pity us millions of phantoms you see
Starved in Samsara on planet TV

How many millions of children die more
before our Good Mothers perceive the Great Lord?
How many good fathers pay tax to rebuild
Armed forces that boast the children they’ve killed?

How many souls walk through Maya in pain
How many babes in illusory pain?
How many families hollow eyed lost?
How many grandmothers turning to ghost?

How many loves who never get bread?
How many Aunts with holes in their head?
How many sisters skulls on the ground?
How many grandfathers make no more sound?

How many fathers in woe
How many sons nowhere to go?
How many daughters nothing to eat?
How many uncles with swollen sick feet?

Millions of babies in pain
Millions of mothers in rain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of children nowhere to go

This poem was written/submitted by Allen Ginsberg.

The Princess Betrothed To The King Of Garba

WHAT various ways in which a thing is told
Some truth abuse, while others fiction hold;
In stories we invention may admit;
But diff’rent ’tis with what historick writ;
Posterity demands that truth should then
Inspire relation, and direct the pen.

ALACIEL’S story’s of another kind,
And I’ve a little altered it, you’ll find;
Faults some may see, and others disbelieve;
‘Tis all the same:–’twill never make me grieve;
Alaciel’s mem’ry, it is very clear,
Can scarcely by it lose; there’s naught to fear.
Two facts important I have kept in view,
In which the author fully I pursue;
The one–no less than eight the belle possessed,
Before a husband’s sight her eyes had blessed;
The other is, the prince she was to wed
Ne’er seemed to heed this trespass on his bed,
But thought, perhaps, the beauty she had got
Would prove to any one a happy lot.

HOWE’ER this fair, amid adventures dire,
More sufferings shared than malice could desire;
Though eight times, doubtless, she exchanged her knight
No proof, that she her spouse was led to slight;
‘Twas gratitude, compassion, or good will;
The dread of worse;–she’d truly had her fill;
Excuses just, to vindicate her fame,
Who, spite of troubles, fanned the monarch’s flame:
Of eight the relict, still a maid received ;–
Apparently, the prince her pure believed;
For, though at times we may be duped in this,
Yet, after such a number–strange to miss!
And I submit to those who’ve passed the scene,
If they, to my opinion, do not lean.

THE king of Alexandria, Zarus named,
A daughter had, who all his fondness claimed,
A star divine Alaciel shone around,
The charms of beauty’s queen were in her found;
With soul celestial, gracious, good, and kind,
And all-accomplished, all-complying mind.

THE, rumour of her worth spread far and wide,
The king of Garba asked her for his bride,
And Mamolin (the sov’reign of the spot,)
To other princes had a pref’rence got.

THE fair, howe’er, already felt the smart
Of Cupid’s arrow, and had lost her heart;
But ’twas not known: princesses love conceal,
And scarcely dare its whispers fond reveal;
Within their bosoms poignant pain remains,
Though flesh and blood, like lasses of the plains.

THE noble Hispal, one of zarus’ court,
A handsome youth, as histories report,
Alaciel pleased; a mutual flame arose,
Though this they durst not venture to disclose
Or, if expressed, ’twas solely by the eyes:–
Soul-speaking language, nothing can disguise!

AFFIANCED thus, the princess, with a sigh,
Prepared to part, and fully to comply.
The father trusted her to Hispal’s care,
Without the least suspicion of the snare;
They soon embarked and ploughed the briny main;
With anxious hopes in time the port to gain.

WHEN they, from Egypt’s coast had sailed a week;
To gain the wind they saw a pirate seek,
Which having done, he t’wards them bore in haste,
To take the ship in which our fair was placed.

THE battle quickly raged; alike they erred;
The pirates slaughter loved, and blood preferred,
And, long accustomed to the stormy tide,
Were most expert, and on their skill relied.
In numbers, too, superior they were found;
But Hisipal’s valour greatly shone around,
And kept the combat undecided long;
At length Grifonio, wond’rous large and strong;
With twenty sturdy, pirates got on board,
And many soon lay gasping by the sword.
Where’er he trod, grim death and horrour reigned;
At length, the round the noble Hispal gained.
His nervous arm laid many wretches low
Rage marked his eyes, whene’er he dealt a blow:

BUT, while the youth was thus engaged in fight,
Grifonio ran to gain a sweeter sight;
The princess was on board full well he knew;
No time he lost, but to her chamber flew;
And, since his pleasures seemed to be her doom;
He bore her like a sparrow from the room:
But not content with such a charming fair,
He took her diamonds, ornaments for hair,
And those dear pledges ladies oft receive,
When they a lover’s ardent flame believe.
Indeed, I’ve heard it hinted as a truth,
(And very probable for such a youth,)
That Hispal, while on board, his flame revealed;
And what chagrin she felt was then concealed,
The passage thinking an improper time,
To shew a marked displeasure at his crime.

THE pirate-chief who carried off his prey,
Had short-lived joy, for, wishing to convey
His charming captive from the ship with speed;
One vessel chanced a little to recede,
Although securely fastened by the crew,
With grappling hooks, as usually they do,
When quite intent to pass, young Hispal made
A blow, that dead at once the ruffian laid;
His head and shoulders, severed from the trunk;
Fell in the sea, and to the bottom sunk,
Abjuring Mahomet, and all the tribe
Of idle prophets, Catholics proscribe;
Erect the rest upon the legs remained;
The very posture as before retained;
This curious sight no doubt a laugh had raised,–
But in the moment, she, so lately praised,
With dread Grifonio, fell beyond their view;
To save her, straight the gallant Hispal flew.
The ships, for want of pilots at the helm,
At random drifted over Neptune’s realm.

GRIM death the pirate forced to quit his slave;
Buoyed up by clothes, she floated on the wave,
‘Till Hispal succour lent, who saw ’twas vain
To try with her the vessel to regain.
He could, with greater ease, the fair convey
To certain rocks, and thither bent his way;
Those rocks to sailors oft destruction proved,
But now the couple saved, who thither moved:
‘Tis even said the jewels were not lost,
But sweet Alaciel, howsoever tost,
Preserved the caskets, which with strings were tied;
And seizing these, the treasure drew aside.

OUR swimmer on his back the princess bore;
The rock attained; but hardships were not o’er;
Misfortunes dire the noble pair pursued
And famine, worst of ills, around was viewed.
No ship was near; the light soon passed away;
The night the same; again appeared the day;
No vessel hove in sight; no food to eat;
Our couple’s wretchedness seemed now complete;
Hope left them both, and, mutual passion moved,
Their situation more tormenting proved.

LONG time in silence they each other eyed
At length, to speak the lovely charmer tried
Said she, ’tis useless, Hispal, to bewail:
Tears, with the cruel Parcae, naught avail;
Each other to console be now our aim;
Grim death his course will follow still the same.
To mitigate the smart let’s try anew;
In such a place as this few joys accrue.

CONSOLE each other, say you? Hispal cried;
What can console when forced one’s love to hide?
Besides, fair princess, ev’ry way ’tis clear,
Improper ’twere for you to love while here;
I equally could death or famine brave;
But you I tremble for, and wish to save.

THESE words so pained the fair, that gushing tears
Bedewed Alaciel’s cheeks, her looks spoke fears;
The ardent flame which she’d so long concealed;
Burst forth in sighs, and all its warmth revealed;
While such emotion Hispal’s eyes expressed,
That more than words his anxious wish confessed.
These tender scenes were followed by a kiss,
The prelude sweet of soft enchanting bliss;
But whether taken, or by choice bestowed,
Alike ’twas clear, their heaving bosoms glowed.

THOSE vows now o’er, said Hispal with a sigh,
In this adventure, if we’re doomed to die,
Indiff’rent surely ’tis, the prey to be
Of birds of air, or fishes of the sea;
My reason tells me ev’ry grave’s the same,
Return we must, at last, from whence we came,
Here ling’ring death alone we can expect;
To brave the waves ’tis better to elect;
I yet have strength, and ’tis not far to land;
The wind sets fair: let’s try to gain the strand;
From rock to rock we’ll go: I many view,
Where I can rest; to THIS we’ll bid adieu.

TO move, Alaciel readily agreed;
Again our couple ventured to proceed;
The casket safe in tow; the weather hot;
From rock to rock with care our swimmer got;
The princess, anxious on his back to keep:–
New mode of traversing the wat’ry deep.

WITH Heav’n’s assistance, and the rocks for rest,
The youth, by hunger and fatigue oppressed,
Uneasiness of mind, weighed down with care,
Not for himself, but safety of the fair,
A fast of two long tedious days now o’er,
The casket and the belle he brought on shore:

I THINK you cry–how wond’rously exact,
To bring the casket into ev’ry act!
Is that a circumstance of weight I pray?
It truly seems so, and without delay,
You’ll see if I be wrong; no airy flight,
Or jeer, or raillery, have I in sight.
Had I embarked our couple in a ship
Without or cash or jewels for the trip,
Distress had followed, you must be aware;
‘Tis past our pow’r to live on love or air;
In vain AFFECTION ev’ry effort tries
Inexorable hunger ALL defies.

THE casket, with the diamonds proved a source,
To which ’twas requisite to have recourse;
Some Hispal sold, and others put in pawn,
And purchased, near the coast, a house and lawn;
With woods, extensive park, and pleasure ground;
And many bow’rs and shady walks around,
Where charming hours they passed, and this ’twas plain,
Without the casket they could n’er obtain.

BENEATH the wood there was a secret grot,
Where lovers, when they pleased, concealment got,
A quiet, gloomy, solitary place,
Designed by nature for the billing race.

ONE day, as through the grove a walk they sought,
The god of love our couple thither brought;
His wishes, Hispal, as they went along,
Explained im part by words direct and strong;
The rest his sighs expressed, (they spoke the soul –
The princess, trembling, listened to the whole.

SAID he, we now are in a place retired,
Unknown to man, (such spots how oft desired!)
Let’s take advantage of the present hour:
No joys, but those of LOVE, are in our pow’r;
All others see withdrawn! and no one knows
We even live; perhaps both friends and foes
Believe us in the belly of a whale;
Allow me, lovely princess, to prevail;
Bestow your kindness, or, without delay,
Those charms to Mamolin let me convey.
Yet, why go thither?–happy you could make
The man, whose constancy no perils shake,
What would you more?–his passion’s ardent grown;
And surely you’ve enough resistance shown.

SUCH tender elocution Hispal used,
That e’en to marble, ‘Twould have warmth infused;
While fair Alaciel, on the bark of trees,
With bodkin wrote, apparently at ease.
But Cupid drew her thoughts to higher things,
Than merely graving what from fancy springs.
Her lover and the place, at once assured,
That such a secret would be well secured;
A tempting bait, which made her, with regret,
Resist the witching charm that her beset.

UNLUCKILY, ’twas then the month of May,
When youthful hearts are often led astray,
And soft desire can scarcely be concealed,
But presses through the pores to be revealed.
How many do we see, by slow degrees,
And, step by step, accord their ALL to please,
Who, at the onset, never dreamed to grant
The smallest favour to their fond gallant.
The god of love so archly acts his part,
And, in unguarded moments, melts the heart,
That many belles have tumbled in the snare,
Who, how it happened, scarcely could declare.

WHEN they had reached the pleasing secret spot;
Young Hispal wished to go within the grot;
Though nearly overcome, she this declined;
But then his services arose to mind;
Her life from Ocean’s waves, her honour too,
To him she owed; what could he have in view?
A something, which already has been shown,
Was saved through Hispal’s nervous arm alone:
Said he, far better bless a real friend,
Than have each treasure rifled in the end,
By some successful ruffian; think it o’er;
You little dream for whom you guard the store.

THE princess felt the truth of this remark,
And half surrendered to the loving spark;
A show’r obliged the pair, without delay,
To seek a shed:–the place I need not say;
The rest within the grotto lies concealed:–
The scenes of Cupid ne’er should be revealed.
Alaciel blame, or not–I’ve many known,
With less excuses, who’ve like favours shown.

ALONE the cavern witnessed not their bliss;
In love, a point once gained, naught feels amiss,
If trees could speak that grew within the dell,
What joys they viewed–what stories they might tell!
The park, the lawn, the pleasure grounds, and bow’rs,
The belts of roses, and the beds of flow’rs,
All, all could whisper something of the kind;
At length, both longed their friends again to find,
Quite cloyed with love, they sighed to be at court;
Thus spoke the fair her wishes to support.

LOVED youth, to ME you must be ever dear;
To doubt it would ungen’rous now appear;
But tell me, pray, what’s love without desire,
Devoid of fear, and nothing to acquire?
Flame unconfined is soon exhausted found,
But, thwarted in its course ’twill long abound;
I fear this spot, which we so highly prize,
Will soon appear a desert in our eyes,
And prove at last our grave; relieve my woe;
At once to Alexandria, Hispal go;
Alive pronounced, you presently will see,
What worthy people think of you and me;
Conceal our residence, declare you came,
My journey to prepare, (your certain aim,)
And see that I’ve a num’rous escort sent,
To guard me from a similar event.
By it, believe me, you shall nothing lose;
And this is what I willingly would choose;
For, be I single, or in Hymen’s band,
I’d have you follow me by sea and land,
And be assured, should favour I withdraw,
That I’ve observed in you some glaring flaw.

WERE her intentions fully as expressed,
Or contrary to what her lips confessed,
No matter which her view, ’twas very plain,
If she would Hispal’s services retain,
‘Twere right the youth with promises to feed,
While his assistance she so much must need:
As soon as he was ready to depart
She pressed him fondly to her glowing heart,
And charged him with a letter to the king;
This Hispal hastened to the prince to bring;
Each sail he crowded:–plied with ev’ry oar;
A wind quite fair soon brought him to shore;
To court he went, where all with eager eyes,
Demanded if he lived, amid surprise,
And where he left the princess; what her state?
These questions answered, Hispal, quite elate,
Procured the escort, which, without delay,
Though leaving him behind, was sent away:
No dark mistrust retained the noble youth;
But Zarus wished it: such appeared the truth.

BY one of early years the troop was led,
A handsome lad, and elegantly bred.
He landed with his party near the park.
And these in two divided ere ’twas dark.

ONE half he left a guard upon the shore,
And with the other hastened to the door,
Where dwelled the belle, who daily fairer grew:
Our chief was smitten instantly at view;
And, fearing opportunity again,
Like this, perhaps, he never might obtain,
Avowed at once his passion to the fair;
At which she frowned, and told him, with an air;
To recollect his duty, and her rank:–
With equals only, he should be so frank.

ON these occasions, prudent ’tis to show
Your disappointment by a face of woe;
Seem ev’ry way the picture of despair:–
This countenance our knight appeared to wear;
To starve himself he vowed was his design;
To use the poniard he should ne’er incline,
For then no time for penitence would rest.-
The princess of his folly made a jest.
He fasted one whole day; she-tried in vain
To make him from the enterprise refrain.

AT length, the second day she ‘gan to feel,
And strong emotion scarcely could conceal.
What! let a person die her charms could save!
‘Twas cruel, thus to treat a youth so brave.
Through pity, she at last, to please the chief,
Consented to bestow on him relief;
For, favours, when conferred with sullen air,
But little gratify she was aware.

WHen satisfied the smart gallant appeared,
And anxiously to putting off adhered,
Pretending that the wind and tide would fail;
The galleys sometimes were unfit to sail,
Repairs required; then further heard the news,
That certain pirates had unpleasant views;
To fall upon the escort they’d contrived:
At length, a pirate suddenly arrived,
Surprized the party left upon the shore,
Destroyed the whole; then sought the house for more,
And scaled the walls while darkness spread around.
The pirate was Grifonio’s second found,
Who, in a trice, the noble mansion took,
And joy gave place to grief in ev’ry look.

THe Alexandrian swore and cursed his lot;
The pirate soon the lady’s story got,
And, taking her aside, his share required
Such impudence Alaciel’s patience tired,
Who, ev’ry thing refused with haughty air;
Of this, howe’er, the robber was aware;
In Venus’ court no novice was he thought;
To gain the princess anxiously he sought;
Said he, you’d better take me as a friend;
I’m more than pirate, and you’ll comprehend,
As you’ve obliged one dying swain to fast,
You fast in turn, or you’ll give way at last;
‘Tis justice this demands: we sons of sea
Know how to deal with those of each degree;
Remember you will nothing have to eat,
Till your surrender fully is complete.

NO haggling, princess pray, my word receive;
What could be done, her terror to relieve?
Above all law is might:–’twill take its course;
Entire submission is the last resource.

OF’T what we would not, we’re obliged to do,
When fate our steps with rigour will pursue.
No folly greater than to heighten pain,
When we are sensible relief is vain.
What she, through pity, to another gave,
Might well be granted when herself ‘twould save.

AT length she yielded to this suitor rude:–
No grief so great, but what may be subdued.
‘Twould in the pirate doubtless have been wise,
The belle to move, and thus prevent surprise;
But who, from folly in amours is free?
The god of love and wisdom ne’er agree.

WHILE our gay pirate thought himself at ease,
The wind quite fair to sail when he might please,
Dame Fortune, sleepy only while we wake,
And slily watching when repose we take,
Contrived a trick the cunning knave to play,
And this was put in force ere break of day.

A LORD, the owner of a neighb’ring seat,
Unmarried;–fond of what was nice and neat,
Without attachment, and devoid of care,
Save something new to meet among the FAIR;
Grew tired of those he long around had viewed,
Now constantly, in thought, our belle pursued.
He’d money, friends, and credit all his days,
And could two thousand men at pleasure raise:
One charming morn, together these he brought;
Said he, brave fellows, can it well be thought,
That we allow a pirate, (dire disgrace!)
To plunder as he likes before our face,
And make a slave of one whose form ’s divine?
Let’s to the castle, such is my design,
And from the ruffian liberate the fair;
This evening ev’ry one will here repair,
Well armed, and then in silence we’ll proceed,
(By night ’tis nothing will impede,)
And ere Aurora peeps, perform the task;
The only booty that I mean to ask
Is this fair dame; but not a slave to make,
I anxiously desire to let her take
Whate’er is her’s:–restore her honour too;
All other things I freely leave to you;
Men, horses, baggage, in a word, the whole
Of what the knavish rascals now control.
Another thing, howe’er:–I wish to hang
The pirate instantly, before his gang.

THIS speech so well succeeded to inspire,
That scarcely could the men retain their ire.

THE evening came, the party soon arrived;
They ate not much, but drink their rage revived.
By such expensive treats we’ve armies known,
In Germany and Flanders overthrown;
And our commander was of this aware
‘Twas prudent, surely, no expense to spare.

THEY carried ladders for the escalade,
And each was furnished with a tempered blade;
No other thing embarrassing they’d got;
No drums; but all was silent as the grot.

THEY reached the house when nearly break of day,
The time old Morpheus’ slumbers often weigh;
The gang, with few exceptions, (then asleep),
Were sent, their vigils with grim death to keep.

THE chief hung up:–the princess soon appeared;
Her spirits presently our champion cheered;
The pirate scarcely had her bosom moved:–
No tears at least a marked affection proved;
But, by her prayers she pardon sought to gain,
For some who were not in the conflict slain;
Consoled the dying, and lamented those,
Who, by the sword, had closed their book of woes:
Then left the place without the least regret,
Where such adventures and alarms she’d met.
‘Tis said, indeed, she presently forgot
The two gallants who last became her lot;
And I can easily the fact believe:
Removed from sight, but few for lovers grieve.

SHE, by her neighbour, was received, we’re told,
‘Mid costly furniture and burnished gold;
We may suppose what splendour shone around,
When all-attracting he would fain be found;
The best of wines; each dish considered rare:–
The gods themselves received not better fare:
Till then, Alaciel ne’er had tasted wine;
Her faith forbade a liquor so divine;
And, unacquainted with the potent juice,
She much indulged at table in its use.
If lately LOVE disquieted her brain,
New poison now pervaded ev’ry vein;
Both fraught with danger to the beauteous FAIR,
Whose charms should guarded be with ev’ry care.

THE princess by the maids in bed was placed;
Then thither went the host with anxious haste,
What sought he? you will ask:–mere torpid charms:–
I wish the like were clasped within my arms.
Give me as much, said one the other week,
And see if I’d a neighbour’s kindness seek.
Through Morpheus’ sleepy pow’r, and Bacchus’ wine:
Our host, at length, completed his design.

ALACIEL, when at morn, she oped her eyes,
Was quite o’ercome with terror and surprise,
No tears would flow, and fear restrained her voice;
Unable to resist, she’d got no choice.

A NIGHT thus passed, the wily lover said,
Must surely give a license to your bed.
The princess thought the same; but our gallant,
Soon cloyed, for other conquests ‘gan to pant.

THE host one evening from the mansion went;
A friend he left himself to represent,
And with the charming fair supply his place,
Which, in the dark he thought, with easy grace,
Might be effected, if he held his tongue,
And properly behaved the whole night long.
To this the other willingly agreed;
(What friend would be refused, if thus in need?)
And this new-comer had complete success
He scarcely could his ecstacy express.

THE dame exclaimed:–pray how could he pretend;
To treat me so, and leave me to a friend?
The other thought the host was much to blame;
But since ’tis o’er, said he, be now your aim,
To punish his contempt of beauteous charms;
With favours load me–take me to your arms;
Caress with fond embrace; bestow delight;
And seem to love me, though in mere despite.

SHE followed his advice: avenged the wrong;
And naught omitted, pleasures to prolong.
If he obtained his wishes from the fair,
The host about it scarcely seemed to care.

THE sixth adventure of our charming belle,
Some writers one way, some another tell;
Whence many think that favour I have shown,
And for her, one gallant the less would own.
Mere scandal this; from truth I would nor swerve,
To please the fair: more credence I deserve;
Her husband only eight precursors had;
The fact was such;–I none suppress nor add.

THE host returned and found his friend content;
To pardon him Alaciel gave consent;
And ‘tween them things would equally divide
Of royal bosoms clemency’s the pride.

WHILE thus the princess passed from hand to hand
She oft amused her fancy ‘mong a band
Of charming belles that on her would attend,
And one of these she made an humble friend.
The fav’rite in the house a lover had,
A smart, engaging, handsome, clever lad,
Well born, but much to violence inclined
A wooer that could scarcely be confined
To gentle means, but oft his suit began,
Where others end, who follow Cupid’s plan.

IT one day happened, that this forward spark;
The girl we speak of, met within the park,
And to a summer-house the fav’rite drew;
The course they took the princess chanced to view
As wand’ring near; but neither swain nor fair,
Suspicion had, that any one was there;
And this gallant most confidently thought,
The girl by force, might to his terms be brought!
His wretched temper, obstacle to love,
And ev’ry bliss bestowed by heav’n above,
Had oft his hopes of favours lately marred;
And fear, with those designs, had also jarred:
The girl, howe’er, would likely have been kind,
If opportunities had pleased her mind.

THE lover, now convinced that he was feared;
In dark designs upon her persevered.
No sooner had she entered, than our man
Locked instantly the door, but vain his plan;
To open it the princess had a key;
The girl her fault perceived, and tried to flee;
He held her fast; the charmer loudly called;
The princess came–or vainly she had squalled.

QUITE disappointed: overcome with ire,
He wholly lost respect amid desire,
And swore by all the gods, that, ere they went,
The one or other should to him consent;
Their hands he’d firmly tie to have his way;
For help (the place so far) ’twere vain to pray;
To take a lot was all that he’d allow;
Come, draw, he said; to Fortune you must bow;
No haggling I request–comply; be still:
Resolved I am with one to have my will.

WHAT has the princess done? the girl replied,
That you, to make her suffer, thus decide
Yes, said the spark, if on her fall the lot,
Then you’ll, at least for present, be forgot.

NO, cried Alaciel, ne’er I’ll have it said,
To sacrifice I saw a maiden led;
I’ll suffer rather all that you expect,
If you will spare my friend as I direct.
‘Twas all in vain, the lots were drawn at last,
And on the princess was the burthen cast;
The other was permitted to retire,
And each was sworn that nothing should transpire:
But our gallant would sooner have been hung,
Than have upon such secrets held his tongue;
‘Tis clear, no longer silent he remained,
Than one to listen to his tale he’d gained.

THIS change of favourites the princess grieved;
That Cupid trifled with her she perceived;
With much regret she saw her blooming charms,
The Helen of too many Paris’ arms.

ONE day it happened, as our beauteous belle
Was sleeping in a wood beside a dell,
By chance there passed, quite near, a wand’ring knight,
Like those the ladies followed with delight,
When they on palfreys rode in days of old,
And purity were always thought to hold.

THIS knight, who copied those of famed romance,
Sir Roger, and the rest, in complisance,
No sooner saw the princess thus asleep,
Than instantly he wished a kiss to reap.
While thinking, whether from the neck or lip,
‘Twere best the tempting balm of bliss to sip,
He suddenly began to recollect
The laws of chivalry he should respect.
Although the thought retained, his fervent prayer
To Cupid was, that while the nymph was there,
Her fascinating charms he might enjoy;
Sure love’s soft senses were ne’er designed to cloy!

THE princess woke, and great surprise expressed;
Oh! charming fair, said he, be not distressed;
No savage of the woods nor giant ’s nigh,
A wand’ring knight alone you now descry,
Delighted thus to meet a beauteous belle
Such charms divine, what angel can excel!

THIS compliment was followed by his sighs,
And frank confession, both from tongue and eyes;
Our lover far in little time could go;
At length, he offered on her to bestow,
His hand and heart, and ev’ry thing beside,
Which custom sanctions when we seek a bride.

WITH courtesy his offer was received,
And she related what her bosom grieved;
Detailed her hist’ry, but with care concealed
The six gallants, as wrong to be revealed.
The knight, in what he wished, indulgence got;
And, while the princess much deplored her lot,
The youth proposed Alaciel he should bring,
To Mamolin, or Alexandria’s king.

TO Mamolin? replied the princess fair,
No, no–I now indeed would fain repair,
(Could I my wishes have), to Zarus’ court,
My native country:–thither give support.

IF Cupid grant me life, rejoined the knight,
You there shall go, and I’ll assist your, flight;
To have redress, upon yourself depends,
As well as to requite the best of friends;
But should I perish in the bold design,
Submit you must, as wills the pow’rs divine.
I’ll freely say, howe’er, that I regard,
My services enough to claim reward.

ALACIEL readily to this agreed;
And favours fondly promised to concede;
T’ensure, indeed, his guarding her throughout,
They were to be conferred upon the route,
From time to time as onward they should go,
Not all at once, but daily some to flow.

THINGS thus arranged, the fair behind the knight
Got up at once, and with him took to flight.
Our cavalier his servants sought to find,
That, when he crossed the wood, he left behind;
With these a nephew and his tutor rode;
The belle a palfrey took, as more the mode,
But, by her walked attentively the spark,
A tale he’d now relate; at times remark
The passing scene; then press his ardent flame;
And thus amused our royal, beauteous dame.

THE treaty was most faithfully observed;
No calculation wrong; from naught they swerved.
At length they reached the sea; on ship-board got;
A quick and pleasing passage was their lot;
Delightfully serene, which joy increased;
To land they came (from perils thought released
At Joppa they debarked; two days remained:
And when refreshed, the proper road they gained;
Their escort was the lover’s train alone;
On Asia’s shores to plunder bands are prone;
By these were met our spark and lovely fair;
New dangers they, alas! were forced to share.

TO cede, at first, their numbers forced the train;
But rallied by our knight they were again;
A desp’rate push he made; repulsed their force;
And by his valour stopt, at length, their course;
In which attack a mortal wound he got,
But was not left for dead upon the spot.

BEFORE his death he full instructions gave,
To grant the belle whatever she might crave;
He ordered too, his nephew should convey,
Alaciel to her home without delay,
Bequeathing him whatever he possessed,
And–what the princess owed among the rest.

AT length, from dread alarms and tears released,
The pair fulfilled the will of our deceased;
Discharged each favour was, of which the last
Was cancelled just as they the frontiers passed.

THE nephew here his precious charge resigned,
For fear the king should be displeased to find,
His daughter guarded by a youthful swain:–
The tutor only with her could remain.

NO words of mine, no language can express
The monarch’s joy his child to re-possess;
And, since the difficulty I perceive,
I’ll imitate old Sol’s retreat at eve,
Who falls with such rapidity of view,
He seems to plunge, dame Thetis to pursue.

THE tutor liked his own details to hear,
And entertaining made his tales appear:
The num’rous perils that the fair had fled,
Who laughed aside, no doubt, at what he said.

I SHOULD observe, the aged tutor cried,
The princess, while for liberty she sighed,
And quite alone remained (by Hispal left,)
That she might be of idleness bereft,
Resolved most fervently a god to serve,
From whom she scarcely since would ever swerve,
A god much worshipped ‘mong the people there,
With num’rous temples which his honours share,
Denominated cabinets and bow’rs,
In which, from high respect to heav’nly pow’rs,
They represent the image of a bird,
A pleasing sight, though (what appears absurd)
‘Tis bare of plumage, save about the wings;
To this each youthful bosom incense brings,
While other gods, as I’ve been often told,
They scarcely notice, till they’re growing old.

DID you but know the virtuous steps she trod,
While thus devoted to the little god,
You’d thank a hundred times the pow’rs above,
That gave you such a child to bless your love.
But many other customs there abound:–
The FAIR with perfect liberty are found:
Can go and come, whene’er the humour fits;
No eunuch (shadow like) that never quits;
But watches ev’ry movement:–always feared;
No men, but who’ve upon the chin a beard:
Your daughter from the first, their manners took:
So easy is her ev’ry act and look,
And truly to her honour I may say,
She’s all-accommodating ev’ry way.

THE king delighted seemed at what he heard;
But since her journey could not be deferred,
The princess, with a num’rous escort, tried
Again o’er seas t’wards Garba’s shores to glide,
And, there arrived, was cordially received
By Mamolin, who loved, she soon believed,
To fond excess; and, all her suite to aid,
A handsome gift to ev’ry one was made.

THE king with noble feasts the court regaled,
At which Alaciel pleasantly detailed
just what she liked, or true or false, ’twas clear;
The prince and courtiers were disposed to hear.

AT night the queen retired to soft repose,
From whence next morn with honour she arose;
The king was found much pleasure to express;
Alaciel asked no more, you well may guess.

BY this we learn, that husbands who aver
Their wond’rous penetration often err;
And while they fancy things so very plain,
They’ve been preceded by a fav’rite swain.
The safest rule ’s to be upon your guard;
Fear ev’ry guile; yet hope the full reward.

SWEET, charming FAIR, your characters revere;
The Mamolin’s a bird not common here.
With us Love’s fascination is so soon
Succeeded by the licensed honey moon,
There’s scarcely opportunity to fool,
Though oft the husband proves an easy tool.

YOUR friendships may be very chaste and pure,
But strangely Cupid’s lessons will allure.
Defeat his wiles; resist his tempting charms
E’en from suspicion suffer not alarms.
Don’t laugh at my advice; ’twere like the boys,
Who better might amuse themselves with toys.

IF any one, howe’er unable seem,
To make resistance ‘gainst the flame supreme
Turn ALL to jest; though right to keep the crown
Yet lost, ‘there wrong, yourself to hang or drown.

This poem was written/submitted by Jean de La Fontaine.

The Hermit

WHEN Venus and Hypocrisy combine,
Oft pranks are played that show a deep design;
Men are but men, and friars full as weak:
I’m not by Envy moved these truths to speak.
Have you a sister, daughter, pretty wife?
Beware the monks as you would guard your life;
If in their snares a simple belle be caught:
The trap succeeds: to ruin she is brought.
To show that monks are knaves in Virtue’s mask;
Pray read my tale:–no other proof I ask.

A HERMIT, full of youth, was thought around,
A saint, and worthy of the legend found.
The holy man a knotted cincture wore;
But, ‘neath his garb:–heart-rotten to the core.
A chaplet from his twisted girdle hung,
Of size extreme, and regularly strung,
On t’other side was worn a little bell;
The hypocrite in ALL, he acted well;
And if a female near his cell appeared,
He’d keep within as if the sex he feared,
With downcast eyes and looks of woe complete,
You’d ne’er suppose that butter he could eat.

NOT far from where the hermit’s cell was placed,
Within a village dwelled a widow chaste;
Her residence was at the further end
And all her store–a daughter as a friend,
Who candour, youth, and charms supreme possessed;
And still a virgin lived, howe’er distressed.
Though if the real truth perhaps we name,
‘Twas more simplicity than virtuous aim;
Not much of industry, but honest heart;
No wealth, nor lovers, who might hope impart.
In Adam’s days, when all with clothes were born,
She doubtless might like finery have worn;
A house was furnished then without expense;
For sheets or mattresses you’d no pretence;
Not e’en a bed was necessary thought
No blankets, pillowbiers, nor quilts were bought.
Those times are o’er; then Hymen came alone;
But now a lawyer in his train is shown.

OUR anchorite, in begging through the place;
This girl beheld,–but not with eyes of grace.
Said he, she’ll do, and, if thou manag’st right,
Lucius, at times, with her to pass the night.
No time he lost, his wishes to secure:
The means, we may suppose, not over pure.

QUITE near the open fields they lived, I’ve said;
An humble, boarded cottage o’er their head.
One charming night–no, I mistake ’tis plain,
Our hermit, favoured much by wind and rain,
Pierced in the boarding, where by time ’twas worn;
A hole through which he introduced a horn;
And loudly bawled:–attend to what I say,
Ye women, my commands at once obey.
This voice spread terror through the little cot;
Both hid their heads and trembled for their lot;
But still our monk his horn would sound aloud
Awake! cried he; your favour God has vowed;
My faithful servant, Lucius, haste to seek;
At early dawn go find this hermit meek
To no one say a word: ’tis Heav’n ordains;
Fear nothing, Lucius ever blessed remains;
I’ll show the way myself: your daughter place,
Good widow, with this holy man of grace;
And from their intercourse a pope shall spring,
Who back to virtue christendom will bring.

HE spoke to them so very loud and clear,
They heard, though ‘neath the clothes half dead with fear.
Some time howe’er the females lay in dread;
At length the daughter ventured out her head,
And, pulling hastily her parent’s arm,
Said she, dear mother, (not suspecting harm)
Good Heav’ns! must I obey and thither go?
What would the holy man on me bestow?
I know not what to say nor how to act;
Now cousin Anne would with him be exact,
And better recollect his sage advice:–
Fool! said the mother, never be so nice;
Go, nothing fear, and do whate’er’s desired;
Much understanding will not be required;
The first or second time thou’lt get thy cue,
And cousin Anne will less know what to do.
Indeed? the girl replied; well, let’s away,
And we’ll return to bed without delay.
But softly, cried the mother with a smile;
Not quite so fast, for Satan may beguile;
And if ’twere so, hast taken proper care?
I think he spoke like one who would ensnare.
To be precipitate, in such a case,
Perhaps might lead at once to dire disgrace.
If thou wert terrified and did’st not hear,
Myself I’m sure was quite o’ercome with fear.
No, no, rejoined the daughter, I am right:
I clearly heard, dear mother, spite of fright.
Well then, replied the widow, let us pray,
That we by Satan be not led astray.

AT length they both arose when morning came,
And through the day the converse was the same.
At night howe’er the horn was heard once more,
And terrified the females as before.
Thou unbelieving woman, cried the voice,
For certain purposes of God the choice;
No more delay, but to the hermit fly,
Or ’tis decreed that thou shalt quickly die.
Now, mother, said the girl, I told you well;
Come, let us hasten to the hermit’s cell;
So much I dread your death, I’ll nothing shun;
And if ’tis requisite, I’ll even run.
Away then, cried the mother, let us go;
Some pains to dress, the daughter would bestow,
Without reflecting what might be her fare:–
To PLEASE is ev’ry blooming lass’s care.

OUR monk was on the watch you may suppose;
A hole he made that would a glimpse disclose;
By which, when near his cell the females drew,
They might, with whip in hand the hermit view,
Who, like a culprit punished for his crimes,
Received the lash, and that so many times,
It sounded like the discipline of schools,
And made more noise than flogging fifty fools.

WHEN first our pilgrims knocked, he would not hear;
And, for the moment, whipping would appear;
The holy lash severely he applied,
Which, through the hole, with pain our females spied;
At length the door he ope’d, but from his eyes
No satisfaction beamed: he showed surprise.
With trembling knees and blushes o’er the face,
The widow now explained the mystick case.
Six steps behind, the beauteous daughter stood,
And waited the decree she thought so good.
The hypocrite howe’er the hermit played,
And sent these humble pilgrims back dismayed.
Said he, the evil spirit much I dread;
No female to my cell should e’er be led;
Excuse me then: such acts would sorrow bring;
From me the HOLY FATHER ne’er spring.
What ne’er from you? the widow straight replied:
And why should not the blessing, pray, be tried?
No other answer howsoe’er she got;
So back they trudged once more to gain their cot.
Ah! mother, said the girl, ’tis my belief,
Our many heavy sins have caused thus grief.

WHEN night arrived and they in sleep were lost,
Again the hermit’s horn the woodwork crossed;
Return, return, cried he with horrid tone;
To-morrow you’ll have due attention shown;
I’ve changed the hermit’s cold fastidious mind,
And when you come, he’ll act as I’ve designed.

THE couple left their bed at break of day,
And to the cell repaired without delay
Our tale to shorten, Lucius kind appeared
To rigid rules no longer he adhered.
The mother with him let her girl remain,
And hastened to her humble roof again.
The belle complying looked:–he took her arm,
And soon familiar grew with ev’ry charm.

O HYPOCRITES! how oft your wily art
Deceives the world and causes poignant smart.

AT matins they so very often met,
Some awkward indications caused regret.
The fair at length her apron-string perceived
Grew daily shorter, which her bosom grieved;
But nothing to the hermit she’d unfold,
Nor e’en those feelings to her mother told;
She dreaded lest she should be sent away,
And be deprived at once of Cupid’s play.
You’ll tell me whence so much discernment came?
From this same play:–the tree of art by name.
For sev’n long months the nymph her visits paid;
Her inexperience doubtless wanted aid.

BUT when the mother saw her daughter’s case,
She made her thank the monk, and leave the place.
The hermit blessed the Lord for what was done;
A pleasant course his humble slave had run.
He told the mother and her daughter fair,
The child, by God’s permission, gifts would share.
Howe’er, be careful, said the wily wight,
That with your infant ev’ry thing goes right;
To you, from thence, great happiness will spring:
You’ll reign the parent of what’s more than king;
Your relatives to noble rank will rise:
Some will be princes; others lords comprise;
Your nephews cardinals; your cousins too
Will dukes become, if they the truth pursue;
And places, castles, palaces, there’ll be,
For you and them of every high degree;
You’ll nothing want: eternal is the source,
Like waters flowing in the river’s course.
This long prediction o’er: with features grave,
His benediction to them both he gave.

WHEN home returned, the girl, each day and night,
Amused her mind with prospects of delight;
By fancy’s aid she saw the future pope,
And all prepared to greet her fondest hope;
But what arrived the whole at once o’erthrew
Hats, dukedoms, castles, vanished from the view:
The promised elevation of the NAME
Dissolved to air:-a little female came!

This poem was written/submitted by Jean de La Fontaine.