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 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 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 jerreed Springs to the touch his startled steed; The rock is doubled, and the shore Shakes with the clattering tramp no more; The crag is won, no more is seen His Christian crest and haughty mien. 'Twas but an instant he restrained That 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 soul Winters of Memory seemed to roll, And gather in that drop of time A 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 opprest By 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 space The thought that Conscience must embrace, Which in itself can comprehend Woe 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 of Hassan's sin was sent To turn a palace to a tomb; He came, he went, like the Simoom, That harbinger of fate and gloom, Beneath whose widely-wasting breath The very cypress droops to death— Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, The only constant mourner o'er the dead!
Byron.
THE NORSEMAN'S RIDE.
The frosty fires of Northern starlight Gleamed on the glittering snow, And through the forest's frozen branches The shrieking winds did blow; A floor of blue, translucent marble Kept ocean's pulses still, When, in the depth of dreary midnight, Opened the burial hill.
Then while a low and creeping shudder Thrilled upward through the ground, The Norseman came, as armed for battle, In silence from his mound: He, who was mourned in solemn sorrow By many a swordsman bold, And harps that wailed along the ocean, Struck by the Skalds of old.
Sudden, a swift and silver shadow Rushed up from out the gloom,— A horse that stamped with hoof impatient, Yet noiseless, on the tomb. "Ha, Surtur! let me hear thy tramping, Thou noblest Northern steed, Whose neigh along the stormy headlands Bade the bold Viking heed!"
He mounted: like a north-light streaking The sky with flaming bars, They, on the winds so wildly shrieking, Shot up before the stars. "Is this thy mane, my fearless Surtur, That streams against my breast? Is this thy neck, that curve of moonlight, Which Helva's hand caressed?
"No misty breathing strains thy nostril, Thine eye shines blue and cold, Yet, mounting up our airy pathway, I see thy hoofs of gold! Not lighter o'er the springing rainbow Walhalla's gods repair, Than we, in sweeping journey over The bending bridge of air.