LITMIR.BIZ

           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.

           "Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?"

           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           To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn?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,

               And the hints you give obscurely.

           THIRD BROTHER.

           Gulnara, this evening when sank the red sun,

           Didst thou mark how like blood in descending it shone?

           THE SISTER.

           Mercy! Allah! have pity! oh, spare!

               See! I cling to your knees repenting!

           Kind brothers, forgive me! for mercy, forbear!

           Be appeased at the cry of a sister's despair,

               For our mother's sake relenting.

           O God! must I die? They are deaf to my cries!

               Their sister's life-blood shedding;

           They have stabbed me each one – I faint – o'er my eyes

               A veil of Death is spreading!

           THE BROTHERS.

           Gulnara, farewell! take that veil; 'tis the gift

           Of thy brothers – a veil thou wilt never lift!

           To please you, Jewess, jewel!

             I have thinned my harem out!

           Must every flirting of your fan

             Presage a dying shout?

           Grace for the damsels tender

             Who have fear to hear your laugh,

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