Orientalism: A Selection of Paintings and Writings (Illustrated) E-Book

Gustave Flaubert

• Herausgeber: Oregan Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 1308

Beschreibung

OPU proudly presents the Orientalism compilation which regroups major orientalist works (both paintings and writings). Orientalism is a term used by scholars in art history, literary, geography, and cultural studies for the depiction of Eastern, that is "Oriental" cultures, including Middle Eastern, North African, South Asian and Southeast Asian cultures, done by writers, designers, and artists from the West. In particular, Orientalist painting depicting "the Middle East" was a genre of 19th-century Academic art. The literature of Western countries took a similar interest in Oriental themes. We hope you enjoy navigating through this ebook. We made sure to create active tables of contents in order to maximise your reading and viewing experience.

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Orientalism

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Orientalism (A Selection Of Paintings And Writings)

© OPU 2018

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About This e-Book

OPU proudly presents the Orientalism compilation which regroups major orientalist works (both paintings and writings). 

Orientalism is a term used by scholars in art history, literary, geography, and cultural studies for the depiction of Eastern, that is "Oriental" cultures, including Middle Eastern, North African, South Asian and Southeast Asian cultures, done by writers, designers, and artists from the West. In particular, Orientalist painting depicting "the Middle East" was a genre of 19th-century Academic art. The literature of Western countries took a similar interest in Oriental themes.

We hope you enjoy navigating through this ebook. We made sure to create active tables of contents in order to maximise your reading and viewing experience.

Contents 

Paintings       1.1 Harems             1.1.A Jean-Jules-Antoine Lecomte du Nouÿ, The White Slave (1888)             1.1.B Fernand Cormon, The Deposed Favourite (1872)             1.1.C Jean-Léon Gérôme, Pool in a Harem (1876)             1.1.D Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Grande Odalisque (1814)             1.1.E Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, with the assistance of his pupil Paul Flandrin, Odalisque with Slave (1839)             1.1.F Ferdinand Max Bredt, Turkish ladies (1893)             1.1.G Giulio Rosati, Inspection of New Arrivals, Circassian beauties being inspected             1.1.H John Frederick Lewis, The Reception (1873)             1.1.I Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, The Turkish Bath (1862)       1.2 Landscapes And Other Paintings             1.2.A Hermann Corrodi, A view of the tomb of the Caliphs with the pyramids of Giza beyond, Cairo             1.2.B Eugène Fromentin, Arabs (1871)             1.2.C Léon Belly,

1. Paintings 

1.1 Harems 

A. Jean-Jules-Antoine Lecomte du Nouÿ, The White Slave (1888)

B. Fernand Cormon, The Deposed Favourite (1872)

C. Jean-Léon Gérôme, Pool in a Harem (1876)

D. Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Grande Odalisque (1814)

About this painting: 

Grande Odalisque, also known as Une Odalisque or La Grande Odalisque, is an oil painting of 1814 by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres depicting an odalisque, or concubine. Ingres' contemporaries considered the work to signify Ingres' break from Neoclassicism, indicating a shift toward exotic Romanticism. Grande Odalisque attracted wide criticism when it was first shown. It has been especially noted for the elongated proportions and lack of anatomical realism. The work is displayed in the Louvre, Paris.

La Grande Odalisque was appropriated by the feminist art group Guerrilla Girls for their first color poster and most iconic image. The 1989 Metropolitan Museum poster gave Ingres's odalisque a gorilla mask and posed the question "Do women have to be naked to get into the Met. Museum?". The poster used data from the group's first "weenie count" and drew attention to the overwhelming amount of female nudes counted in the Modern Art sections of The Met. The poster was rejected by the Public Art Fund in New York and was run in advertising space on New York City buses until the bus company cancelled the lease arguing that the image was "too suggestive and that the figure appeared to have more than a fan in her hand."

E. Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, with the assistance of his pupil Paul Flandrin, Odalisque with Slave (1839)

F. Ferdinand Max Bredt, Turkish ladies (1893)

G. Giulio Rosati, Inspection of New Arrivals, Circassian beauties being inspected

H. John Frederick Lewis, The Reception (1873)

I. Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, The Turkish Bath (1862)

About this painting:

The Turkish Bath (Le Bain Turc) is an oil painting by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. It depicts a group of nude women in the bath of a harem, and is painted in a highly erotic style that evokes both the near east and earlier western styles associated with mythological subject matter. Painted on canvas laid down on wood, it measures 108 x 108 cm. The work is signed and dated 1862, when Ingres was around 82 years old, and was completed in 1863. In that year Ingres altered the painting's original rectangular format, and cut the painting to its present tondo form. Photographs of the painting in its original format survive. It seems based on an April 1717 written description of a Turkish harem by Lady Mary Montagu, where she mentions having viewed some two hundred nude women.[1] The painting develops and elaborates a number of motifs Ingres had explored in earlier paintings, in particular his 1808 The Valpinçon Bather and Grande Odalisque of 1814. Its erotic content did not provoke a scandal, since for much its existence it has remained in private collections. It is now in the Louvre, Paris.

Ingres was influenced by the then fashion for Orientalist, re-launched by Napoleon's invasion of Egypt. On leaving for Italy in 1806, he copied in his notebooks a text extolling 'the baths of the seraglio of Mohammed', in which can be read a description of a harem where one "goes into a room surrounded by sofas [...] and it is there that many women destined for this use attend the sultana in the bath, wiping her handsome body and rubbing the softest perfumes into her skin; it is there that she must then take a voluptuous rest".

In 1825, he copied a passage from Letters from the Orient by Lady Mary Montagu, who had accompanied her British diplomat husband to the Ottoman Empire in 1716. Her letters had been re-published eight times in France alone between 1763 and 1857, adding to the Orientalist craze there. The passage Ingres copied was entitled "Description of the women's bath at Adrianople" and reads: "I believe there were two hundred women there in all. Beautiful naked women in various poses... some conversing, others at their work, others drinking coffee or tasting a sorbet, and many stretched out nonchalantly, whilst their slaves (generally ravishing girls of 17 or 18 years) plaited their hair in fantastical shapes."

In contrast to Delacroix (who visited an Algerian harem), Ingres never travelled to Africa or the Middle East, and the courtesans shown are more Caucasian and European than Middle Eastern or African in appearance. For Ingres the oriental theme was above all a pretext for portraying the female nude in a passive and sexual context. Exotic elements are few and far between in the image: musical instruments, a censer and a few ornaments.

1.2 Landscapes And Other Paintings

A. Hermann Corrodi, A view of the tomb of the Caliphs with the pyramids of Giza beyond, Cairo

B. Eugène Fromentin, Arabs (1871)

C. Léon Belly, Pilgrims going to Mecca (1861)

D. Vasily Vereshchagin, They are triumphant (1872)

E. Anders Zorn, Man and boy in Algiers (1887)

F. John Frederick Lewis, The midday meal, Cairo

G. Giulio Rosati, The Discussion

2. Writings 

Lord Byron - The Giaour (A Fragment Of A Turkish Tale)

The Giaour is a poem by Lord Byron first published in 1813 by T. Davison and the first in the series of his Oriental romances. The Giaour proved to be a great success when published, consolidating Byron's reputation critically and commercially.

The Combat of the Giaour and Hassan

Painted by Eugène Delacroix (1826)

The Giaour (1813)

No breath of air to break the waveThat rolls below the Athenian's grave,That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliffFirst greets the homeward-veering skiffHigh o'er the land he saved in vain;When shall such Hero live again?Fair clime! where every season smilesBenignant o'er those blesséd isles,Which, seen from far Colonna's height,Make glad the heart that hails the sight,And lend to lonliness delight.There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheekReflects the tints of many a peakCaught by the laughing tides that laveThese Edens of the Eastern wave:And if at times a transient breezeBreak the blue crystal of the seas,Or sweep one blossom from the trees,How welcome is each gentle airThat waves and wafts the odours there!For there the Rose, o'er crag or vale,Sultana of the Nightingale,The maid for whom his melody,His thousand songs are heard on high,Blooms blushing to her lover's tale:His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows,Far from winters of the west,By every breeze and season blest,Returns the sweets by Nature givenIn soft incense back to Heaven;And gratefu yields that smiling skyHer fairest hue and fragrant sigh.And many a summer flower is there,And many a shade that Love might share,And many a grotto, meant by rest,That holds the pirate for a guest;Whose bark in sheltering cove belowLurks for the pasiing peaceful prow,Till the gay mariner's guitarIs heard, and seen the Evening Star;Then stealing with the muffled oar,Far shaded by the rocky shore,Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,And turns to groan his roudelay.Strange—that where Nature loved to trace,As if for Gods, a dwelling place,And every charm and grace hath mixedWithin the Paradise she fixed,There man, enarmoured of distress,Should mar it into wilderness,And trample, brute-like, o'er each flowerThat tasks not one labourious hour;Nor claims the culture of his handTo blood along the fairy land,But springs as to preclude his care,And sweetly woos him—but to spare!Strange—that where all is Peace beside,There Passion riots in her pride,And Lust and Rapine wildly reignTo darken o'er the fair domain.It is as though the Fiends prevailedAgainst the Seraphs they assailed,And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwellThe freed inheritors of Hell;So soft the scene, so formed for joy,So curst the tyrants that destroy!He who hath bent him o'er the deadEre the first day of Death is fled,The first dark day of Nothingness,The last of Danger and Distress,(Before Decay's effacing fingersHave swept the lines where Beauty lingers,)And marked the mild angelic air,The rapture of Repose that's there,The fixed yet tender thraits that streakThe languor of the placid cheek,And—but for that sad shrouded eye,That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,And but for that chill, changeless brow,Where cold Obstruction's apathyAppals the gazing mourner's heart,As if to him it could impartThe doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;Yes, but for these and these alone,Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,He still might doubt the Tyrant's power;So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,The first, last look by Death revealed!Such is the aspect of his shore;'T is Greece, but living Greece no more!So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,We start, for Soul is wanting there.Hers is the loveliness in death,That parts not quite with parting breath;But beauty with that fearful bloom,That hue which haunts it to the tomb,Expression's last receding ray,A gilded Halo hovering round decay,The farewell beam of Feeling past away!Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!Clime of the unforgotten brave!Whose land from plain to mountain-caveWas Freedom;s home or Glory's grave!Shrine of the mighty! can it be,That this is all remains of thee?Approach, thou craven crouching slave:Say, is this not Thermopylæ?These waters blue that round you lave,—Of servile offspring of the free—Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?The gulf, the rock of Salamis!These scenes, their story yet unknown;Arise, and make again your own;Snatch from the ashes of your SiresThe embers of their former fires;And he who in the strife expiresWill add to theirs a name of fearThat Tyranny shall quake to hear,And leave his sons a hope, a fame,They too will rather die than shame:For Freedom's battle once begun,Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,Though baffled oft is ever won.Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!Attest it many a deathless age!While Kings, in dusty darkness hid,Have left a namesless pyramid,Thy Heroes, though the general doomHath swept the column from their tomb,A mightier monument command,The mountains of thy native land!There points thy Muse to stranger's eyeThe graves of those that cannot die!'T were long to tell, and sad to trace,Each step from Spledour to Disgrace;Enough—no foreign foe could quellThy soul, till from itself it fell;Yet! Self-abasement paved the wayTo villain-bonds and despot sway.What can he tell who tread thy shore?No legend of thine olden time,No theme on which the Muse might soarHigh as thine own days of yore,When man was worthy of thy clime.The hearts within thy valleys bred,The fiery souls that might have ledThy sons to deeds sublime,Now crawl from cradle to the Grave,Slaves—nay, the bondsmen of a Slave,And callous, save to crime.Stained with each evil that pollutesMankind, where least above the brutes;Without even savage virtue blest,Without one free or valiant breast,Still to the neighbouring ports tey waftProverbial wiles, and ancient craft;In this subtle Greek is found,For this, and this alown, renowned.In vain might Liberty invokeThe spirit to its bondage brokeOr raise the neck that courts the yoke:No more her sorrows I bewail,Yet this will be a mournful tale,And they who listen may believe,Who heard it first had cause to grieve.Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,The shadows of the rocks advancingStart on the fisher's eye like boatOf island-pirate or Mainote;And fearful for his light caïque,He shuns the near but doubtful creek:Though worn and weary with his toil,And cumbered with his scaly spoil,Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,Till Port Leone's safer shoreReceives him by the lovely lightThat best becomes an Eastern night.... Who thundering comes on blackest steed,With slackened bit and hoof of speed?Beneath the clattering iron's soundThe caverned echoes wake aroundIn lash for lash, and bound for bound;The foam that streaks the courser's sideSeems gathered from the ocean-tide:Though weary waves are sunk to rest,There's none within his rider's breast;And though tomorrow's tempest lower,'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!I know thee not, I loathe thy race,But in thy lineaments I traceWhat time shall strengthen, not efface:Though young and pale, that sallow frontIs scathed by fiery passion's brunt;Though bent on earth thine evil eye,As meteor-like thou glidest by,Right well I view thee and deem thee oneWhom Othman's sons should slay or shun.On - on he hastened, and he drewMy gaze of wonder as he flew:Though like a demon of the nightHe passed, and vanished from my sight,His aspect and his air impressedA troubled memory on my breast,And long upon my startled earRung 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 heWhose glance is fixed on those that flee;And not a start that shines too brightOn him who takes such timeless flight.He wound along; but ere he passedOne 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 stillThough too remote for sound to wakeIn echoes of far tophaike,The flashes of each joyous pealAre seen to prove the Moslem's zeal,Tonight, set Rhamazani's sun;Tonight the Bairam feast's begun;Tonight - but who and what art thouOf foreign garb and fearful brow?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 flushOf transient anger's hasty 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 -Down glanced that hand and, and grasped his blade;That sound had burst his waking dream,As slumber starts at owlet's scream.The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;Away, away, for life he rides:Swift as the hurled on high jerreedSprings to the touch his startled steed;The rock is doubled, and the shoreShakes with the clattering tramp no more;The crag is won, no more is seenHis Christian crest and haughty mien.'Twas but an instant he restrainedThat fiery barb so sternly reined;'Twas but a moment that he stood,Then sped as if by death pursued;But in that instant o'er his soulWinters of memory seemed to roll,And gather in that drop of timeA life of pain, an age of crime.O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,Such moment pours the grief of years:What felt he then, at once opprestBy all that most distracts the breast?That pause, which pondered o'er his fate,Oh, who its dreary length shall date!Though in time's record nearly nought,It was eternity to thought!For infinite as boundless spaceThe thought that conscience must embrace,Which in itself can comprehendWoe without name, or hope, or end.The hour is past, the Giaour is gone;And did he fly or fall alone?Woe to that hour he came or went!The curse for Hassan's sin was sentTo turn a palace to a tomb:He came, he went, like the Simoom,That harbinger of fate and gloom,Beneath whose widely - wasting breathThe very cypress droops to death -Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled,The only constant mourner o'er the dead!The steed is vanished from the stall;No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;The lonely spider's thin grey pallWaves slowly widening o'er the wall;The bat builds in his harem bower,And in the fortress of his powerThe owl usurps the beacon-tower;The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,With baffled thirst and famine, grim;For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread.‘Twas sweet of yore to see it playAnd chase the sultriness of day,As springing high the silver dewIn whirls fantastically flew,And flung luxurious coolness roundThe air, and verdure o'er the ground.‘Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,To view the wave of watery light,And hear its melody by night.And oft had Hassan's childhood playedAround the verge of that cascade;And oft upon his mother's breastThat sound had harmonized his rest;And oft had Hassan's youth alongIts bank been soothed by beauty's song;And softer seem'd each melting toneOf music mingled with its own.But ne'er shall Hassan's age reposeAlong the brink at twilight's close:The stream that filled that font is fled -The blood that warmed his heart is shed!And here no more shall human voiceBe heard to rage, regret, rejoice.The last sad note that swelled the galeWas woman's wildest funeral wall:That quenched in silence all is still,But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill:Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,No hand shall clasp its clasp again.On desert sands ‘twere joy to scanThe rudest steps of fellow man,So here the very voice of griefMight wake an echo like relief -At least ‘twould say, ‘All are not gone;There lingers life, though but in one' -For many a gilded chamber's there,Which solitude might well forbear;Within that dome as yet decayHath slowly worked her cankering way -But gloom is gathered o'er the gate,Nor there the fakir's self will wait;Nor there will wandering dervise stay,For bounty cheers not his delay;Nor there will weary stranger haltTo bless the sacred ‘bread and salt'.Alike must wealth and povertyPass heedless and unheeded by,For courtesy and pity diedWith Hassan on the mountain side.His roof, that refuge unto men,Is desolation's hungry den.The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour,Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre!I hear the sound of coming feet,But not a voice mine ear to greet;More near - each turban I can scan,And silver-sheathed ataghan;The foremost of the band is seenAn emir by his garb of green:‘Ho! Who art thou?' - ‘This low salamReplies of Moslem faith I am.'‘The burden ye so gently bear,Seems one that claims your utmost care,And, doubtless, holds some precious freight,My humble bark would gladly wait.'‘Thou speakest sooth; they skiff unmoor,And waft us from the silent shore;Nay, leave the sail still furled, and plyThe nearest oar that's scattered by,And midway to those rocks where sleepThe channeled waters dark and deep.Rest from your task - so - bravely done,Of course had been right swiftly run;Yet ‘tis the longest voyage, I trow,That one of -Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank,The calm wave rippled to the bank;I watched it as it sank, methoughtSome motion from the current caughtBestirred it more, - ‘twas but the beamThat checkered o'er the living stream:I gazed, till vanishing from view,Like lessening pebble it withdrew;Still less and less, a speck of whiteThat gemmed the tide, then mocked the sight;And all its hidden secrets sleep,Known but to Genii of the deep,Which, trembling in their coral caves,They dare not whisper to the waves.As rising on its purple wingThe insect-queen of eastern spring,O'er emerald meadows of KashmeerInvites the young pursuer near,And leads him on from flower to flowerA weary chase and wasted hour,Then leaves him, as it soars on high,With panting heart and tearful eye:So beauty lures the full-grown child,With hue as bright, and wing as wild:A chase of idle hopes and fears,Begun in folly, closed in tears.If won, to equal ills betrayed,Woe waits the insect and the maid;A life of pain, the loss of peace,From infant's play and man's caprice:The lovely toy so fiercely soughtHath lost its charm by being caught,For every touch that wooed its stayHath brushed its brightest hues away,Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,‘Tis left to fly or fall alone.With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,Ah! Where shall either victim rest?Can this with faded pinion soarFrom rose to tulip as before?Or beauty, blighted in an hour,Find joy within her broken bower?No: gayer insects fluttering byNe'er droop the wing o'er those that die,And lovelier things have mercy shownTo every failing but their own,And every woe a tear can claimExcept an erring sister's shame.The mind that broods o'er guilty woes,Is like the scorpion girt by fire;In circle narrowing as it glows,The flames around their captive close,Till inly searched by thousand throes,And maddening in her ire,One sad and sole relief she knows,The sting she nourished for her foes,Whose venom never yet was vain,Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,So do the dark in soul expire,Or live like scorpion girt by fire;So writhes the mind remorse hath riven,Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven,Darkness above, despair beneath,Around it flame, within it death!Black Hassan from the harem flies,Nor bends on woman's form his eyes;The unwonted chase each hour employs,Yet shares he not the hunter's joys.Not thus was Hassan wont to flyWhen Leila dwelt in his Serai.Doth Leila there no longer dwell?That tale can only Hassan tell:Strange rumours in our city sayUpon that eve she fled awayWhen Rhamazan's last sun was set,And flashing from each minaretMillions of lamps proclaimed the feastOf Bairam through the boundless East.‘Twas then she went as to the bath,Which Hassan vainly searched in wrath;For she was flown her master's rageIn likeness of a Georgian page,And far beyond the Moslem's powerHad wronged him with the faithless Giaour.Somewhat of this had Hassan deemed;But still so fond, so fair she seemed,Too well he trusted to the slaveWhose treachery deserved a grave:And on that eve had gone to mosque,And thence to feast in his kiosk.Such is the tale his Nubians tell,Who did not watch their charge too well;But others say, that on that night,By pale Phingari's trembling light,The Giaour upon his jet-black steedWas seen, but seen alone to speedWith bloody spur along the shore,Nor maid nor page behind him bore.Her eye's dark charm ‘twere vain to tell,But gaze on that of the gazelle,It will assist thy fancy well;As large, as languishingly dark,But soul beamed forth in every sparkThat darted from beneath the lid,Bright as the jewel of Giamschild.Yea, Soul, and should our prophet sayThat form was nought but breathing clay,By Allah! I would answer nay;Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood,Which totters o'er the fiery flood,With Paradise within my view,And all his Houris beckoning through.Oh! Who young Leila's glance could readAnd keep that portion of his creed,Which saith that woman is but dust,A soulless toy for tyrant's lust?On her might Muftis might gaze, and ownThat through her eye the Immortal shone;On her fair cheek's unfading hueThe young pomegranate's blossoms strewTheir bloom in blushes ever new;Her hair in hyacinthine flow,When left to roll its folds below,As midst her handmaids in the hallShe stood superior to them all,Hath swept the marble where her feetGleamed whiter than the mountain sleetEre from the cloud that gave it birthIt fell, and caught one stain of earth.The cygnet nobly walks the water;So moved on earth Circassia's daughter,The loveliest bird of Franguestan!As rears her crest the ruffled swan,And spurns the wave with wings of pride,When pass the steps of stranger manAlong the banks that bound her tide;Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck:-Thus armed with beauty would she checkIntrusion's glance, till folly's gazeShrunk from the charms it meant to praise:Thus high and graceful as her gait;Her heart as tender to her mate;Her mate - stern Hassan, who was he?Alas! That name was not for thee!Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'enWith twenty vassals in his train,Each armed, as best becomes a man,With arquebuss and ataghan;The chief before, as decked for war,Bears in his belt the scimitarStain'd with the best of Amaut bloodWhen in the pass the rebels stood,And few returned to tell the taleOf what befell in Parne's vale.The pistols which his girdle boreWere those that once a pasha wore,Which still, though gemmed and bossed with gold,Even robbers tremble to behold.'Tis said he goes to woo a brideMore true than her who left his side;The faithless slave that broke her bower,And - worse than faithless - for a Giaour!The sun's last rays are on the hill,And sparkle in the fountain rill,Whose welcome waters, cool and clear,Draw blessings from the mountaineer:Here may the loitering merchant GreekFind that repose 'twere vain to seekIn cities lodged too near his lord,And trembling for his secret hoard -Here may he rest where none can see,In crowds a slave, in deserts free;And with forbidden wine may stainThe bowl a Moslem must not drain.The foremost Tartar's in the gap,Conspicuous by his yellow cap;The rest in lengthening line the whileWind slowly through the long defile:Above, the mountain rears a peak,Where vultures whet the thirsty beak,And theirs may be a feast tonight,Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light;Beneath, a river's wintry streamHas shrunk before the summer beam,And left a channel bleak and bare,Save shrubs that spring to perish there:Each side the midway path there laySmall broken crags of granite greyBy time, or mountain lightning, rivenFrom summits clad in mists of heaven;For where is he that hath beheldThe peak of Liakura unveiled?They reach the grove of pine at last:'Bismillah! now the peril's past;For yonder view the opening plain,And there we'll prick our steeds amain.'The Chiaus spake, and as he said,A bullet whistled o'er his head;The foremost Tartar bites the ground!Scarce had they time to check the rein,Swift from their steeds the riders bound;But three shall never mount again:Unseen the foes that gave the wound,The dying ask revenge in vain.With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent,Some o'er their courser's harness leant,Half sheltered by the steed;Some fly behind the nearest rock,And there await the coming shock,Nor tamely stand to bleedBeneath the shaft of foes unseen,Who dare not quit their craggy screen.Stern Hassan only from his horseDisdains to light, and keeps his course,Till fiery flashes in the vanProclaim too sure the robber-clanHave well secured the only wayCould now avail the promised prey;Then curled his very beard with ire,And glared his eye with fiercer fire:‘Though far and near the bullets hiss,I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this.'And now the foe their covert quit,And call his vassals to submit;But Hassan's frown and furious wordAre dreaded more than hostile sword,Nor of his little band a manResigned carbine or ataghan,Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!In fuller sight, more near and near,The lately ambushed foes appear,And, issuing from the grove, advanceSome who on battle-charger prance.Who leads them on with foreign brand,Far flashing in his red right hand?"Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now;I know him by his pallid brow;I know him by the evil eyeThat aids his envious treachery;I know him by his jet-black barb:Though now arrayed in Arnaut garbApostate from his own vile faith,It shall not save him from the death:'Tis he! well met in any hour,Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!As rolls the river into ocean,In sable torrent wildly streaming;As the sea-tide's opposing motion,In azure column Proudly gleamingBeats back the current many a rood,In curling foam and mingling flood,While eddying whirl, and breaking wave,Roused by the blast of winter, rave;Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash,The lightnings of the waters flashIn awful whiteness o'er the shore,That shines and shakes beneath the roar;Thus - as the stream, and Ocean greet,With waves that madden as they meet -Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong,And fate, and fury, drive along.The bickering sabres' shivering jar;And pealing wide or ringing nearIts echoes on the throbbing ear,The deathshot hissing from afar;The shock, the shout, the groan of war,Reverberate along that valeMore suited to the shepherds tale:Though few the numbers - theirs the strifeThat neither spares nor speaks for life!Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,To seize and share the dear caress;But love itself could never pantFor all that beauty sighs to grantWith half the fervour hate bestowsUpon the last embrace of foes,When grappling in the fight they foldThose arms that ne'er shall lose their hold:Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith;True foes, once met, are joined till death!With sabre shivered to the hilt,Yet dripping with the blood he spilt;Yet strained within the severed handWhich quivers round that faithless brand;His turban far behind him rolled,And cleft in twain its firmest fold;His flowing robe by falchion torn,And crimson as those clouds of mornThat, streaked with dusky red, portendThe day shall have a stormy end;A stain on every bush that boreA fragment of his palamporeHis breast with wounds unnumbered riven,His back to earth, his face to heaven,Fallen Hassan lies - his unclosed eyeYet lowering on his enemy,As if the hour that sealed his fateSurviving left his quenchless hate;And o'er him bends that foe with browAs dark as his that bled below.'Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,But his shall be a redder grave;Her spirit pointed well the steelWhich taught that felon heart to feel.He called the Prophet, but his powerWas vain against the vengeful Giaour:He called on Allah - but the word.Arose unheeded or unheard.Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayerBe passed, and thine accorded there?I watched my time, I leagued with these,The traitor in his turn to seize;My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done,And now I go - but go alone.'The browsing camels' bells are tinkling:His mother looked from her lattice high -She saw the dews of eve besprinklingThe pasture green beneath her eye,She saw the planets faintly twinkling:Tis twilight - sure his train is nigh.'She could not rest in the garden-bower,But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower:'Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet,Nor shrink they from the summer heat;Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift?Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift?Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar nowHas gained our nearest mountain's brow,And warily the steep descends,And now within the valley bends;And he bears the gift at his saddle bowHow could I deem his courser slow?Right well my largess shall repayHis welcome speed, and weary way.'The Tartar lighted at the gate,But scarce upheld his fainting weight!His swarthy visage spake distress,But this might be from weariness;His garb with sanguine spots was dyed,But these might be from his courser's side;He drew the token from his vest -Angel of Death! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest!His calpac rent - his caftan red -'Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed:Me, not from mercy, did they spare,But this empurpled pledge to bear.Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt:Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.'A turban carved in coarsest stone,A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,Whereon can now be scarcely readThe Koran verse that mourns the dead,Point out the spot where Hassan fellA victim in that lonely dell.There sleeps as true an OsmanlieAs e'er at Mecca bent the knee;As ever scorned forbidden wine,Or prayed with face towards the shrine,In orisons resumed anewAt solemn sound of 'Allah Hu!'Yet died he by a stranger's hand,And stranger in his native land;Yet died he as in arms he stood,And unavenged, at least in blood.But him the maids of ParadiseImpatient to their halls invite,And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyesOn him shall glance for ever bright;They come - their kerchiefs green they wave,And welcome with a kiss the brave!Who falls in battle 'gainst a GiaourIs worthiest an immortal bower.But thou, false Infidel! shalt writheBeneath avenging Monkir's scythe;And from its torment 'scape aloneTo wander round lost Eblis' throne;And fire unquenched, unquenchable,Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tellThe tortures of that inward hell!But first, on earth as vampire sent,Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:Then ghastly haunt thy native place,And suck the blood of all thy race;There from thy daughter, sister, wife,At midnight drain the stream of life;Yet loathe the banquet which perforceMust feed thy livid living corse:Thy victims ere they yet expireShall know the demon for their sire,As cursing thee, thou cursing them,Thy flowers are withered on the stem.But one that for thy crime must fall,The youngest, most beloved of all,Shall bless thee with a father's name -That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!Yet must thou end thy task, and markHer cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark,And the last glassy glance must viewWhich freezes o'er its lifeless blue;Then with unhallowed hand shalt tearThe tresses of her yellow hair,Of which in life a lock when shornAffection's fondest pledge was worn,But now is borne away by thee,Memorial of thine agony!Wet with thine own best blood shall dripThy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;Then stalking to thy sullen grave,Go - and with Gouls and Afrits rave;Till these in horror shrink awayFrom spectre more accursed than they!'How name ye yon lone Caloyer?His features I have scanned beforeIn mine own land: 'tis many a year,Since, dashing by the lonely shore,I saw him urge as fleet a steedAs ever served a horseman's need.But once I saw that face, yet thenIt was so marked with inward pain,I could not pass it by again;It breathes the same dark spirit now,As death were stamped upon his brow.Tis twice three years at summer tideSince first among our freres he came;And here it soothes him to abideFor some dark deed he will not name.But never at our vesper prayer,Nor e'er before confession chairKneels he, nor recks he when ariseIncense or anthem to the skies,But broods within his cell alone,His faith and race alike unknown.The sea from Paynim land he crost,And here ascended from the coast;Yet seems he not of Othman race,But only Christian in his face:I'd judge him some stray renegade,Repentant of the change he made,Save that he shuns our holy shrine,Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.Great largess to these walls he brought,And thus our abbot's favour bought;But were I prior, not a dayShould brook such stranger's further stay,Or pent within our penance cellShould doom him there for aye to dwell.Much in his visions mutters heOf maiden whelmed beneath the sea;Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying.On cliff he hath been known to stand,And rave as to some bloody handFresh severed from its parent limb,Invisible to all but him,Which beckons onward to his grave,And lures to leap into the wave.'Dark and unearthly is the scowlThat glares beneath his dusky cowl:The flash of that dilating eyeReveals too much of times gone by;Though varying, indistinct its hue,Oft will his glance the gazer rue,For in it lurks that nameless spell,Which speaks, itself unspeakable,A spirit yet unquelled and high,That claims and keeps ascendency;And like the bird whose pinions quake,But cannot fly the gazing snake,Will others quail beneath his look,Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook.From him the half-affrighted friarWhen met alone would fain retire,As if that eye and bitter smileTransferred to others fear and guile:Not oft to smile descendeth he,And when he doth 'tis sad to seeThat he but mocks at misery.How that pale lip will curl and quiver!Then fix once more as if for ever;As if his sorrow or disdainForbade him e'er to smile again.Well were it so - such ghastly mirthFrom joyaunce ne'er derived its birth.But sadder still it were to traceWhat 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 degradedEven by the crimes through which it waded:The common crowd but see the gloomOf wayward deeds, and fitting doom;The close observer can espyA noble soul, and lineage high:Alas! though both bestowed in vain,Which grief could change, and guilt could stain,It was no vulgar tenementTo which such lofty gifts were lent,And still with little less than dreadOn 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!'His floating robe around him folding,Slow sweeps he through the columned aisle;With dread beheld, with gloom beholdingThe rites that sanctify the pile.But when the anthem shakes the choir,And kneel the monks, his steps retire;By yonder lone and wavering torchHis aspect glares within the porch;There will he pause till all is done -And hear the prayer, but utter none.See - by the half-illumined wallHis hood fly back, his dark hair fall,That pale brow wildly wreathing round,As if the Gorgon there had boundThe sablest of the serpent-braidThat o'er her fearful forehead strayed:For he declines the convent oathAnd leaves those locks unhallowed growth,But wears our garb in all beside;And, not from piety but pride,Gives wealth to walls that never heardOf his one holy vow nor word.Lo! - mark ye, as the harmonyPeals louder praises to the sky,That livid cheek, that stony airOf mixed defiance and despair!Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine!Else may we dread the wrath divineMade manifest by awful sign.If ever evil angel boreThe form of mortal, such he wore:By all my hope of sins forgiven,Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!'To love the softest hearts are prone,But such can ne'er be all his own;Too timid in his woes to share,Too meek to meet, or brave despair;And sterner hearts alone may feelThe wound that time can never heal.The rugged metal of the mine,Must burn before its surface shine,But plunged within the furnace-flame,It bends and melts - though still the same;Then tempered to thy want, or will,'Twill serve thee to defend or kill;A breast-plate for thine hour of need,Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;But if a dagger's form it bear,Let those who shape its edge, beware!Thus passion's fire, and woman's art,Can turn and tame the sterner heart;From these its form and tone are ta'en,And what they make it, must remain,But break - before it bend again.If solitude succeed to grief,Release from pain is slight relief;The vacant bosom's wildernessMight thank the pang that made it less.We loathe what none are left to share:Even bliss - 'twere woe alone to bear;The heart once left thus desolateMust fly at last for ease - to hate.It is as if the dead could feelThe icy worm around them steal,And shudder, as the reptiles creepTo revel o'er their rotting sleep,Without the power to scare awayThe cold consumers of their clay IIt is as if the desert-bird,Whose beak unlocks her bosom's streamTo still her famished nestlings' scream,Nor mourns a life to them transferred,Should rend her rash devoted breast,And find them flown her empty nest.The keenest pangs the wretched findAre rapture to the dreary void,The leafless desert of the mind,The waste of feelings unemployed.Who would be doomed to gaze uponA sky without a cloud or sun?Less hideous far the tempest's roarThan 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 shockThan moulder piecemeal on the rock!'Father! thy days have passed in peace,'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer;To bid the sins of others ceaseThyself without a crime or care,Save transient ills that all must bear,Has been thy lot from youth to age;And thou wilt bless thee from the rageOf passions fierce and uncontrolled,Such as thy penitents unfold,Whose secret sins and sorrows restWithin thy pure and pitying breast.My days, though few, have passed belowIn much of joy, but more of woe;Yet still in hours of love or strife,I've 'scaped the weariness of life:Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes,I loathed the languor of repose.Now nothing left to love or hate,No more with hope or pride elate,I'd rather be the thing that crawlsMost noxious o'er a dungeon's walls,Than pass my dull, unvarying days,Condemned to meditate and gaze.Yet, lurks a wish within my breastFor rest - but not to feel 'tis restSoon shall my fate that wish fulfil;And I shall sleep without the dreamOf what I was, and would be still,Dark as to thee my deeds may seem:My memory now is but the tombOf joys long dead; my hope, their doom:Though better to have died with thoseThan bear a life of lingering woes.My spirit shrunk not to sustainThe searching throes of ceaseless pain;Nor sought the self-accorded graveOf ancient fool and modern knave:Yet death I have not feared to meet;And the field it had been sweet,Had danger wooed me on to moveThe slave of glory, not of love.I've braved it - not for honour's boast;I smile at laurels won or lost;To such let others carve their way,For high renown, or hireling pay:But place again before my eyesAught that I deem a worthy prizeThe maid I love, the man I hate,And I will hunt the steps of fate,To save or slay, as these require,Through rending steel, and rolling fire:Nor needest thou doubt this speech from oneWho would but do ~ what he hath done.Death is but what the haughty brave,The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;Then let life go to him who gave:I have not quailed to danger's browWhen high and happy - need I now?'I loved her, Friar! nay, adored -But these are words that all can use -I proved it more in deed than word;There's blood upon that dinted sword,A stain its steel can never lose:'Twas shed for her, who died for me,It warmed the heart of one abhorred:Nay, start not - no - nor bend thy knee,Nor midst my sins such act record;Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,For he was hostile to thy creed!The very name of NazareneWas wormwood to his Paynim spleen.Ungrateful fool! since but for brandsWell wielded in some hardy hands,And wounds by Galileans given -The surest pass to Turkish heavenFor him his Houris still might waitImpatient at the Prophet's gate.I loved her - love will find its wayThrough paths where wolves would fear to prey;And if it dares enough, 'twere hardIf passion met not some reward -No matter how, or where, or why,I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vainI wish she had not loved again.She died - I dare not tell thee how;But look - 'tis written on my brow!There read of Cain the curse and crime,In characters unworn by time:Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause;Not mine the act, though I the cause.Yet did he but what I had doneHad she been false to more than one.Faithless to him, he gave the blow;But true to me, I laid him low:Howe'er deserved her doom might be,Her treachery was truth to me;To me she gave her heart, that allWhich tyranny can ne'er enthral;And I, alas! too late to save!Yet all I then could give, I gave,'Twas some relief, our foe a grave.His death sits lightly; but her fateHas made me - what thou well mayest hate.His doom was sealed - he knew it wellWarned by the voice of stern Taheer,Deep in whose darkly boding earThe deathshot pealed of murder near,As filed the troop to where they fell!He died too in the battle broil,A time that heeds nor pain nor toil;One cry to Mahomet for aid,One prayer to Allah all he made:He knew and crossed me in the fray -I gazed upon him where he lay,And watched his spirit ebb away:Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel,He felt not half that now I feel.I searched, but vainly searched, to findThe workings of a wounded mind;Each feature of that sullen corseBetrayed his rage, but no remorse.Oh, what had vengeance given to traceDespair upon his dying face IThe late repentance of that hour,When penitence hath lost her powerTo tear one terror from the grave,And will not soothe, and cannot save.'The cold in clime are cold in blood,Their love can scarce deserve the name;But mine was like a lava floodThat boils in Etna's breast of flame.I cannot prate in puling strainOf ladye-love, and beauty's chain:If changing cheek, and searching vein,Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,If bursting heart, and maddening brain,And daring deed, and vengeful steel,And all that I have felt, and feel,Betoken love - that love was mine,And shown by many a bitter sign.'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh,I knew but to obtain or die.I die - but first I have possessed,And come what may, I have been blessed.Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?No - reft of all, yet undismayedBut for the thought of Leila slain,Give me the pleasure with the pain,So would I live and love again.I grieve, but not, my holy guide!For him who dies, but her who died:She sleeps beneath the wandering waveAh! had she but an earthly grave,This breaking heart and throbbing headShould seek and share her narrow bed.She was a form of life and light,That, seen, became a part of sight;And rose, where'er I turned mine eye,The morning-star of memory!'Yes, love indeed is light from heaven..A spark of that immortal fireWith angels shared, by Allah given,To lift from earth our low desire.Devotion wafts the mind above,But Heaven itself descends in love;A feeling from the Godhead caught,To wean from self each sordid thought;A ray of him who formed the whole;A glory circling round the soul !I grant my love imperfect, allThat mortals by the name miscall;Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;But say, oh say, hers was not guilt !She was my life's unerring light:That quenched, what beam shall break my night?Oh! would it shone to lead me still,Although to death or deadliest ill!Why marvel ye, if they who loseThis present joy, this future hope,No more with sorrow meekly cope;In phrensy then their fate accuse;In madness do those fearful deedsThat seem to add but guilt to woe?Alas! the breast that inly bleedsHath nought to dread from outward blow;Who falls from all he knows of bliss,Cares little into what abyss.Fierce as the gloomy vulture's nowTo thee, old man, my deeds appear:I read abhorrence on thy brow,And this too was I born to bear!'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey,With havock have I marked my way:But this was taught me by the dove,To die - and know no second love.This lesson yet hath man to learn,Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:The bird that sings within the brake,The swan that swims upon the lake,One mate, and one alone, will take.And let the fool still prone to range,And sneer on all who cannot change,Partake his jest with boasting boys;I envy not his varied joys,But deem such feeble, heartless man,Less than yon solitary swan;Far, far beneath the shallow maidHe left believing and betrayed.Such shame at least was never mine -Leila! each thought was only thine!My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,My hope on high - my all below.Earth holds no other like to thee,Or, if it doth, in vain for me:For worlds I dare not view the dameResembling thee, yet not the same.The very crimes that mar my youth,This bed of death - attest my truth!'Tis all too late - thou wert, thou artThe cherished madness of my heart!'And she was lost - and yet I breathed,But not the breath of human life:A serpent round my heart was wreathed,And stung my every thought to strife.Alike all time, abhorred all place,Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face,Where every hue that charmed beforeThe blackness of my bosom wore.The rest thou dost already know,And all my sins, and half my woe.But talk no more of penitence;Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence:And if thy holy tale were true,The deed that's done canst thou undo?Think me not thankless - but this griefLooks not to priesthood for relief.My soul's estate in secret guess:But wouldst thou pity more, say less.When thou canst bid my Leila live,Then will I sue thee to forgive;Then plead my cause in that high placeWhere purchased masses proffer grace.Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrungFrom forest-cave her shrieking young,And calm the lonely lioness:But soothe not - mock not my distress!'In earlier days, and calmer hours,When heart with heart delights to blend,Where bloom my native valley's bowersI had - Ah! have I now? - a friend!To him this pledge I charge thee send,Memorial of a youthful vow;I would remind him of my end:Though souls absorbed like mine allowBrief thought to distant friendship's claim,Yet dear to him my blighted name.'Tis strange - he prophesied my doom,And I have smiled - I then could smile -When prudence would his voice assume,And warn - I recked not what - the while:But now remembrance whispers o'erThose accents scarcely marked before.Say - that his bodings came to pass,And he will start to hear their truth,And wish his words had not been sooth:Tell him, unheeding as I was,Through many a busy bitter sceneOf all our golden youth had been,In pain, my faltering tongue had triedTo bless his memory ere I died;But Heaven in wrath would turn away,If guilt should for the guiltless pray.I do not ask him not to blame,Too gentle he to wound my name;And what have I to do with fame?I do not ask him not to mourn,Such cold request might sound like scorn;And what than friendship's manly tearMay better grace a brother's bier?But bear this ring, his own of old,And tell him - what thou dost behold!The withered frame, the ruined mind,The wrack by passion left behind,A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf,Seared by the autumn blast of grief!'Tell me no more of fancy's gleam,No, father, no, 'twas not a dream;Alas! the dreamer first must sleep.I only watched, and wished to weep;But could not, for my burning browThrobbed to the very brain as now:I wished but for a single tear,As something welcome, new, and dear-;I wished it then, I wish it still;Despair is stronger than my will.Waste not thine orison, despairIs mightier than thy pious prayer:I would not if I might, be blest;I want no paradise, but rest.'Twas then, I tell thee, father! thenI saw her; yes, she lived again;And shining in her white symar,As through yon pale grey cloud the starWhich now I gaze on, as on her,Who looked and looks far lovelier;Dimly I view its trembling spark;Tomorrow's night shall be more dark;And I, before its rays appear,That lifeless thing the living fear.I wander, father! for my soulIs fleeting towards the final goal.I saw her, friar! and I roseForgetful of our former woes;And rushing from my couch, I dart,And clasp her to my desperate heart;I clasp - what is it that I clasp?No breathing form within my grasp,No heart that beats reply to mine,Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!And art thou, dearest, changed so much,As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold,I care not; so my arms enfoldThe all they ever wished to hold.Alas! around a shadow prest,They shrink upon my lonely breast;Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands,And beckons with beseeching hands!With braided hair, and bright black eye -I knew 'twas false - she could not die!But he is dead! within the dellI saw him buried where he fell;He comes not, for he cannot breakFrom earth; why then art thou awake?They told me wild waves rolled aboveThe face I view, the form I love;They told me - 'twas a hideous tale II'd tell it, but my tongue would fail:If true, and from thine ocean-caveThou com'st to claim a calmer grave;Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'erThis brow that then will burn no more;Or place them on my hopeless heart:But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art,In mercy ne'er again depart!Or farther with thee bear my soulThan winds can waft or waters roll!'Such is my name, and such my tale.Confessor ! to thy secret earI breathe the sorrows I bewail,And thank thee for the generous tearThis glazing eye could never shed.Then lay me with the humblest dead,And, save the cross above my head,Be neither name nor emblem spread,By prying stranger to be read,Or stay the passing pilgrims tread.'He passed - nor of his name and raceHath left a token or a trace,Save what the father must not sayWho shrived him on his dying day:This broken tale was all we knewOf her he loved, or him he slew.