A tale by Lord Byron...

The Giaour - A Fragment of a Turkish Tale

(A tale by Lord Byron, 1813)

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem-
My memory now is but the tomb
Of joys long dead-my hope-their doom-
Though better to have died with those
Than bear a life of lingering woes-


I do not ask him not to mourn,
Such cold request might sound like scorn;
And what than friendship's manly tear
May better grace a brother's bier?
But bear this ring-his own of old-
And tell him-what thou dost behold!
The withered frame, the ruined mind,
The wrack by passion left behind-
A shrivelled scroll, a scatter'd leaf
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief!


'Such is my name, and such my tale,
Confessor-to thy secret ear,
I breathe the sorrows I bewail,
And thank thee for the general tear
This glazing eye could never shed.
Then lay me with the humblest dead,
And save the cross above my head,
Be neither name nor emblem spread
By prying stranger to be read,
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread.'
He pass'd-nor of his name and race
Hath left a token or a trace,
Save what the father must not say
Who shrived him on his dying day;
This broken tale was all we knew
Of her he lov'd, or him he slew.

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