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In frolicsome array, —
Who 'neath the screening parasols
Dance down the merry day.
But more than all enchanting
At night, it is to me,
To sit, where winds are sighing,
Lone, musing by the sea;
And, on its surface gazing,
To mark the moon so fair,
Her silver fan outspreading,
In trembling radiance there.
W.D., Tait's Edin. Magazine
MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS
("La lune était sereine.")
{X., September, 1828.}
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave;
At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide,
Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide,
With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.
From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar.
She listens – hark! that sound that echoes dull and low.
Is it the beat upon the Archipelago
Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar?
Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one,
Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls?
Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls
Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone?
Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio?
'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float,
'Tis no dull plume of stone – no oars of Turkish boat,
With measured beat along the water creeping slow.
'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves;
And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide,
Something like human form would stir within its side.
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
THE VEIL
("Qu'avez-vous, mes frères?")
{XI., September, 18288.}
"Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?"
THE SISTER
What has happened, my brothers? Your spirit to-day
Some secret sorrow damps
There's a cloud on your brow. What has happened? Oh, say,
For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray
Like the light of funeral lamps.
And the blades of your poniards are half unsheathed
In your belt – and ye frown on me!
There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed
In your bosom, my brothers three!
ELDEST BROTHER.
Gulnara, make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn,
To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn?
THE SISTER.
As I came, oh, my brother! at noon – from the bath —
As I came – it was noon, my lords —
And your sister had then, as she constantly hath,
Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path
Is beset by these foreign hordes.
But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour
Near the mosque was so oppressive
That – forgetting a moment the eye of the Giaour —
I yielded to th' heat excessive.
SECOND BROTHER.
Gulnara, make answer! Whom, then, hast thou seen,
In a turban of white and a caftan of green?
THE SISTER.
Nay, he might have been there; but I muflled me so,
He could scarcely have seen my figure. —
But why to your sister thus dark do you grow?
What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low,
Of "blood" and "an intriguer"?
Oh! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt
On your souls, my brothers, surely!
Though I fear – from the hands that are chafing the hilt,
Who 'neath the screening parasols
Dance down the merry day.
But more than all enchanting
At night, it is to me,
To sit, where winds are sighing,
Lone, musing by the sea;
And, on its surface gazing,
To mark the moon so fair,
Her silver fan outspreading,
In trembling radiance there.
W.D., Tait's Edin. Magazine
MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS
("La lune était sereine.")
{X., September, 1828.}
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave;
At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide,
Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide,
With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.
From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar.
She listens – hark! that sound that echoes dull and low.
Is it the beat upon the Archipelago
Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar?
Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one,
Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls?
Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls
Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone?
Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio?
'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float,
'Tis no dull plume of stone – no oars of Turkish boat,
With measured beat along the water creeping slow.
'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves;
And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide,
Something like human form would stir within its side.
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
THE VEIL
("Qu'avez-vous, mes frères?")
{XI., September, 18288.}
"Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?"
THE SISTER
What has happened, my brothers? Your spirit to-day
Some secret sorrow damps
There's a cloud on your brow. What has happened? Oh, say,
For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray
Like the light of funeral lamps.
And the blades of your poniards are half unsheathed
In your belt – and ye frown on me!
There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed
In your bosom, my brothers three!
ELDEST BROTHER.
Gulnara, make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn,
To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn?
THE SISTER.
As I came, oh, my brother! at noon – from the bath —
As I came – it was noon, my lords —
And your sister had then, as she constantly hath,
Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path
Is beset by these foreign hordes.
But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour
Near the mosque was so oppressive
That – forgetting a moment the eye of the Giaour —
I yielded to th' heat excessive.
SECOND BROTHER.
Gulnara, make answer! Whom, then, hast thou seen,
In a turban of white and a caftan of green?
THE SISTER.
Nay, he might have been there; but I muflled me so,
He could scarcely have seen my figure. —
But why to your sister thus dark do you grow?
What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low,
Of "blood" and "an intriguer"?
Oh! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt
On your souls, my brothers, surely!
Though I fear – from the hands that are chafing the hilt,
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