The Giaour's Ride by Byron

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slackened bit and hoof of speed? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The caverned echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side Seems gathered from the ocean-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast; And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface: Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.
On—on he hastened, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew: Though like a demon of the night He passed, and vanished from my sight, His aspect and his air impressed A troubled memory on my breast, And long upon my startled ear Rung 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 he Whose glance is fixed on those that flee; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight. He wound along; but ere he passed One 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 still: Though too remote for sound to wake In echoes of the far tophaike, The flashes of each joyous peal Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal, To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; To-night, the Bairam feast's begun; To-night—but who and what art thou Of foreign garb and fearful brow? And what are these to thine, or thee, 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 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!