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THE TURKISH MAID.
SONG XI.
1
The sinking sun's celestial red,Yet trembled on the mountain's head;
Refresh'd in dew, the lover star
Rejoic'd in western skies afar.
21
Brighten'd, but broke not through the cloud;
While Christian bondsmen, doom'd to pain,
Of freedom dream'd 'neath Paynim's chain.
2
Hark! 'tis the Sultan's secret door,And list that footfall on the floor;
And mark a maid, whose raiments' fold
Is bright with gems, and stiff with gold:
She waves her hand, meanwhile her breath
Holds stedfast as the tongue of death;
And her blue eyes divinely glow,
Twin stars woke in that heaven her brow.
3
Backwards her raven curls she throws,O'er shoulders white as sifted snows;
When rising through the evening's gloom,
Peers knight with Scotland's plaid and plume,
The silver-bearded thistle shows,
Companion'd by the lovely rose;
And in the bonnets circlet bound,
His front of heaven's divinest round.
4
No whisper now, 'tis not the grove,Where bashful maiden breathes of love;
Nor lonesome walk, where damsel vain
Of conquest, warms and cools again.
One whisper give, and from the sheath,
The warder's brand leaps whet for death;
22
The martyrdom of faithful love.
5
She pauses with a smother'd sigh,And backward casts her lovely eye;
But, with the filial reasoner strove,
The dear successful wrestler love.
The tears which in their founts awake,
Pled eloquent for parent's sake;
She leaves to gather with the dew,
And to her lovers arms she flew.
6
Scarce had her lips of opening rose,Time in delicious kiss to close;
When Turkish crests, in evening beam,
Disastrous shone like planet's gleam.
As fountain lilly moved with rain,
Silent she stood, then shook amain;
Till the best heart's blood wet the sand,
That ever throbb'd in heathen land.
7
All tumult is and darkness now,But hearken each descending blow;
And voices from the beach beneath,
Faint muttering prayers, in throes of death.
And listen to that dashing oar,
Distinct, now fainter, on the shore;
And chieftain's, stretch'd in gory sand,
Curse Scotish arm, and Scotish brand.
23
8
The moon from scarfing clouds has broke,The ocean reeks with silver smoke;
And mark yon ship, with gallant sweep,
Careering mistress of the deep:
Britannia perch'd with spear on prow,
Is taming the rebel surge below;
And in her warlike shadow laid,
The Scotish Knight and Turkish Maid.
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