OTHMAN
Morning, bright morning, thou art on the wave,
Where sweep the proud gallies, whose freight is the brave
The red flag is streaming—a meteor of war;
Woe to the eyes that watch for it afar!
Young warrior, the sabre is bright in thy hand,—
Why does thy dark eye yet linger on land?
The heart of the warrior should be, like his shield,
As firm in its temper, unknowing to yield.
Thou art brave; where's the Infidel foe dare advance,
For the blow of thy sword, or the flight of thy lance?
Thy white sails are spread, in their pride to the wind,
Why lingerest thou, with thy fond looks behind?
Oh! the heart has its softness, tho' covered with steel;
And the rock has deep waters it cannot conceal;
And he who has ridden in blood to the knee,
Will start at a shadow, when touched, Love by thee!
He turned to the shore; for a maiden is there,
The least rose of whose cheek, the least wave of whose hair,
Are dearer to him than the wealth of the world,
Or the red hour of triumph, when banners are furled.
That eye's slightest look, that lip's softest word,
He is meek as a slave in the chains of his lord:
Not the less, when the battle ships meet on the brine,
Will his bark and his brand be the first in the line.
But the wind fills the sails, and they sweep from the shore;
They part with that parting which never meets more:
They may gaze from the land on the desolate main,
But the bark of young Othman returns not again.
'Tis evening; alone, in her tower on the steep,
His lady sits watching the war of the deep.
Like a trumpet, the wild wind has rung to the charge,
And the unprisoned thunders are rushing at large.
