The Greek Boy

 ("Les Turcs ont passés là.") 
 
 {XVIII., June 10, 1828.} 


 All is a ruin where rage knew no bounds: 
 Chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds, 
 For shivered yest'reen was her lance; 
 Sulphurous vapors envenom the place 
 Where her true beauties of Beauty's true race 
 Were lately linked close in the dance. 
 
 Dark is the desert, with one single soul; 
 Cerulean eyes! whence the burning tears roll 
 In anguish of uttermost shame, 
 Under the shadow of one shrub of May, 
 Splashed still with ruddy drops, bent in decay 
 Where fiercely the hand of Lust came. 
 
 "Soft and sweet urchin, still red with the lash 
 Of rein and of scabbard of wild Kuzzilbash, 
 What lack you for changing your sob— 
 If not unto laughter beseeming a child— 
 To utterance milder, though they have defiled 
 The graves which they shrank not to rob? 
 
 "Would'st thou a trinket, a flower, or scarf, 
 Would'st thou have silver? I'm ready with half 
 These sequins a-shine in the sun! 
 Still more have I money—if you'll but speak!" 
 He spoke: and furious the cry of the Greek, 
 "Oh, give me your dagger and gun!" 


 

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