The Giaour has ratings and 19 reviews. Bookdragon Sean said: This is such a dark and twisted poem that sees a Byronic hero in his full force. The her. Synopsis of Lord Byron’s “The Giaour” , (I see) A young and dangerous-looking Giaour gallop by. , The Giaour’s movements are evasive. THE GIAOUR, A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. BY LORD BYRON. ” One fatal remembrance one sorrow that throws ” It’s bleak shade alike o’er our joys and.

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Sultana of the Nightingale, 2. The first, last look by Death revealed!

Clime of the unforgotten brave! Shrine of the mighty! Approach, thou craven crouching slave: Attest it many a deathless age! Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a Slave, He shuns the near but doubtful creek: Who thundering comes on blackest steed, My gaze of wonder as he flew: On him who takes such timeless flight.

The Giaour: A Fragment of a Turkish Tale by Lord Byron

A moment checked his wheeling steed, In echoes of the far tophaike, Swift as the hurled on high jerreed Such moment pours the grief of years: It was Eternity to Thought!

Woe without name, or hope, or end. And did he fly or fall alone? He came, he went, like the Simoom, The Bat builds in his Haram bower, The blood that warmed his heart is shed! Which Solitude might well forbear; An Emir by his garb of green: The insect-queen 28 of Eastern spring. Or live like Scorpion girt by fire; Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. Her hair in hyacinthine flow, The loveliest bird of Franguestan!

The peak of Liakura 39 unveiled? The Chiaus 41 spake, and as he said. Then curled his very beard 42 with ire. Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun! I know him by the evil eye As rolls the river into Ocean, That neither spares nor speaks for life! A fragment of his palampore; As if the hour that sealed his fate His mother looked from her lattice high — But scarce upheld his fainting weight! A Turban 50 carved in coarsest stone. They come — their kerchiefs green they wave, But first, on earth as Vampire 55 sent.

Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; As death were stamped upon his brow. Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine!

Might thank the pang that made it less. It is as if the dead could feel It is as if the desert bird, Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: Through rending steel, and rolling fire: Deep in whose darkly boding ear Betrayed his rage, but no remorse.


She was a form of Life and Light, That quenched — what beam shall break my night? Cares little into what abyss. The cherished madness of my heart! Looks not to priesthood for relief. Where purchased masses proffer grace.

I had — Ah!

And shining in her white symar And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours there!

His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by Nature given In softest incense back to Heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. It is as though the Fiends prevailed Against the Seraphs they assailed, And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell The freed inheritors of Hell; So soft the scene, so formed for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth! The gulf, the rock of Salamis! Bear witness, Greece, thy living page! Self-abasement paved the way To villain-bonds and despot sway. What can he tell who treads thy shore? In vain might Liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke Or 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.

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 11 With slackened bit and hoof of speed? On — on he hastened, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew: And what are these to thine or thee, That thou shouldst either pause or flee? He stood — some dread was on his face, Soon Hatred settled in its place: Swift as the hurled on high jerreed 16 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.

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone: 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 close its clasp again.

I gazed, till vanishing from view, Like lessening pebble it withdrew; Still less and less, a speck of white That 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.


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. With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, Ah! Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before?

Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower? Not thus was Hassan wont to fly When Leila dwelt in his Serai.

The Giaour: A Fragment of a Turkish Tale

Doth Leila there no longer dwell? That tale can only Hassan tell: Somewhat of this had Hassan deemed; But still so fond, so fair she seemed, Too well he trusted to the slave Whose treachery deserved a grave: And on that eve had gone to Mosque, And thence to feast in his Kiosk.

Thus high and graceful was her gait; Her heart as tender to her mate; Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? The pistols which his girdle bore Were those that once a Pasha wore, Which still, though gemmed and bossed with gold, Even robbers tremble to behold. Each side the midway path there lay Small broken crags of granite gray, By time, or mountain lightning, riven From summits clad in mists of heaven; For where is he that hath beheld The peak of Liakura 39 unveiled?

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. Who leads them on with foreign brand Far flashing in his red right hand? I know him now; I know him by his pallid brow; I know him by the evil eye nyron That aids his envious treachery; I know him by his jet-black barb; Though now arrayed in Arnaut garb, Lore from his own vile faith, It shall not save him from the death: Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, That neither spares nor speaks for life!

Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith; True foes, once met, are joined till death! He called the Prophet, but his power Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: