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Beneath the clattering iron's sound
The cavern'd echoes wake around
In lash for lash, and bound for bound;
The foam that strikes the courser's side,
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide:
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There's none within his rider's breast,
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, th
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!...
On-on he hastened-and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew :
Though like a demon of the night
He passed and vanished from my sight;
His aspect and his air impressed
A troubled memory on my breast;
And long upon my startled ear
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear..
He spurs his steed-he nears the steep,
That jutting shadows o'er the deep-
He winds around-he hurries by-
The rock relieves him from mine eye-
For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fixed on those that flee ;
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along-but ere he passed,
One glance he snatched-as if his last-
A moment checked his wheeling steed→→→
A moment breathed him from his speed→→→
A moment on his stirrup stood-
Why looks he o'er the olive wood?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still
Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike,
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night-set Rhamazani's sun→→→
To-night-the Bairam feast's begun i
To-night-but who and what art thou
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou should'st either pause or flee?....
He stood-some dread was on his face-
Soon Hatred settled in its place... --
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient Anger's darkening blush,
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent his eye was glazed—
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised;
And sternly shook his hand on high,
"As doubting to return or fly ;-
Impatient of his flight delayed,
Here loud his raven charger neighed doth wi Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade→→
That sound had burst his waking dream,
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream.
But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face—
Time hath not yet the features fixed,
But brighter traits with evil mixed-
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded→→→
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds and fitting doomi
The close observer can espy
A noble soul, and lineage high.
Alas! though both bestowed in vain,
Which Grief could change
It was no vulgar tenement
To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted-
The roofless cot decayed and rent,
Will scarce delay the passer by---
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,
Demands and daunts the stranger's eye
Each ivied arch-and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!
We loathe what none are left to share-
Even bliss-'twere woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate,
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay!
It is as if the desart bird,
Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream;
To still her famish'd nestlings' scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd;
Should rend her rash devoted breast,
And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void-
The leafless desert of the mind-
The waste of feelings unemploy❜d-
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar,
Than ne'er to brave the billows more-
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;-
Better to sink beneath the shock,
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY THE CELEBRATED GEORGE BARRINGTON, at OPENING THE THEATRE AT BOTANY BAY.
FROM distant climes, o'er far spread seas we come,
But not with much eclat or beat of drum,
Tho' patriots all; for, be it understood,
We left our country for our country's good.
In private views at end, our generous zeal,
That urg'd our travels, was our country's weal;
And none will doubt but that our emigration:
Has prov'd most useful to the British nation.
But you inquire, what could our breasts inflame
With this new passion for theatric fame?
What, in the practice of our former days,
Could shape our talents to exhibit plays?
Your patience, Sirs; some observations made,
You'll grant us equal to the scenic trade.
He who to midnight ladders is no stranger,
You'll own must prove an admirable Ranger.
To find Macheath we have not far to roam;
And sure to Filch I shall be quite at home.
Unrivall❜d there, none will dispute my claim
To sure pre-eminence in exalted fame.