On The Fringe: A Midnight Siege Tale

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And its glance, though clear, was chill. Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fixed, As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. And the Noon will look on a sultry day. The horsetails 45 are plucked from the ground, and the sword. Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. And crush the wall they have crumbled before: He who first downs with the red cross may crave Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless Vizier; Thus the first were backward bent; 52 Such was the fall of the foremost slain.

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt; There stood an old man 56 —his hairs were white,. Outnumbered his thin hairs 58 of silver grey. And since the day, when in the strait But they live in the verse that immortally saves. In one wild roar expired!

And howling left the unburied dead; 75 Deep-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh; Thus was Corinth lost and won! I had forgotten them, and am not sure that they had not better be left out now;—on that you and your Synod can determine. First published in Letters and Journals , , i. Compare, too, letter to Mrs. Byron, November 12, Letters , , i. I wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote an immense cloak , and lay down on deck to wait the worst. Warton says that Pope once intended to write an epic poem on the story, and that Akenside had the same design Works of Alexander Pope, Esq.

He died of his wounds next day [August 16, ]. He was a young man of great ambition and unbounded presumption: The conquest of the Morea was begun by the Venetians in , and completed in If, as the editor of The Works of Lord Byron , x. See letter to Murray, January 2, The bodies were probably those of some refractory Janizaries. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen years.

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Let me conclude by a hope that he will not longer delay the publication of a production, of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the applause of far more competent judges. Byron vide ante , p. Now, as Byron himself perceived, perhaps for the first time, when he had the MS. The Critical Review February, , vol. Compare Lara , Canto I. Thou beholdest the clouds that obscure the sun: If what I have done be so criminal. I have traversed a sea of blood to acquire a power which will make thy equals tremble; deem not that I shall retire when in view of the port; or that I will relinquish her who is dearer to me than either my life or thy mercy.

Let the sun appear! Castellan Translated, , iv.

What vulgarism is this! The solecism, if such it be, was repeated in Marino Faliero , act iii. In Greece I never saw nor heard these animals; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow armies. A sentence in a letter to Moore, dated January 10, Letters , , iii. First published in This edition published by eBooks Adelaide.

Last updated Monday, November 16, at Note on the Ms. To John Hobhouse, Esq. January 22nd , All our thoughts and words had scope, We had health, and we had hope, Toil and travel, but no sorrow. We were of all tongues and creeds;— Some were those who counted beads, Some of mosque, and some of church, 20 And some, or I mis-say, of neither; Yet through the wide world might ye search, Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. But those hardy days flew cheerily! And when they now fall drearily, My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 6 And bear my spirit back again Over the earth, and through the air, A wild bird and a wanderer.

From Venice—once a race of worth His gentle Sires—he drew his birth; But late an exile from her shore, Against his countrymen he bore The arms they taught to bear; and now The turban girt his shaven brow. But not for vengeance, long delayed, Alone, did Alp, the renegade, The Moslem warriors sternly teach His skill to pierce the promised breach: And when the Adriatic bore Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, And pensive waxed the maid and pale; More constant at confessional, More rare at masque and festival; Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, Which conquered hearts they ceased to prize: With listless look she seems to gaze: The waves on either shore lay there Calm, clear, and azure as the air; And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, But murmured meekly as the brook.

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It seemed to those within the wall A cry prophetic of their fall: Few hours remain, and he hath need Of rest, to nerve for many a deed Of slaughter; but within his soul The thoughts like troubled waters roll. Nor his, what burning patriots feel, The stern exaltedness of zeal, Profuse of blood, untired in toil, When battling on the parent soil. He stood alone—a renegade Against the country he betrayed; He stood alone amidst his band, Without a trusted heart or hand: They followed him, for he was brave, And great the spoil he got and gave; They crouched to him, for he had skill To warp and wield the vulgar will: But still his Christian origin With them was little less than sin.

They envied even the faithless fame He earned beneath a Moslem name; Since he, their mightiest chief, had been In youth a bitter Nazarene. They did not know how Pride can stoop, When baffled feelings withering droop; They did not know how Hate can burn In hearts once changed from soft to stern; Nor all the false and fatal zeal The convert of Revenge can feel.

He ruled them—man may rule the worst, By ever daring to be first: His head grows fevered, and his pulse The quick successive throbs convulse; In vain from side to side he throws His form, in courtship of repose; Or if he dozed, a sound, a start Awoke him with a sunken heart. He could not rest, he could not stay Within his tent to wait for day, But walked him forth along the sand, Where thousand sleepers strewed the strand.

And yet they fearless dream of spoil; While he alone, where thousands passed A night of sleep, perchance their last, In sickly vigil wandered on, And envied all he gazed upon. He felt his soul become more light Beneath the freshness of the night. Cool was the silent sky, though calm, And bathed his brow with airy balm: But vain her voice, till better days Dawn in those yet remembered rays, Which shone upon the Persian flying, And saw the Spartan smile in dying.

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Not so had those his fancy numbered, 22 The chiefs whose dust around him slumbered; Their phalanx marshalled on the plain, Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. He looks to her, and rushes on Where life is lost, or Freedom won. Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, And wooed the freshness Night diffused.

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, 23 Which changeless rolls eternally; So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood; And the powerless moon beholds them flow, Heedless if she come or go: Calm or high, in main or bay, On their course she hath no sway. A smooth short space of yellow sand 24 Between it and the greener land. Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts waxed cold? And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand, The foremost of these were the best of his band: Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, 27 All the rest was shaven and bare.

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, Scared by the dogs, from the human prey; But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, Picked by the birds, on the sands of the bay. Alp turned him from the sickening sight: Never had shaken his nerves in fight; But he better could brook to behold the dying, Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 28 Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.

What we have seen, our sons shall see; Remnants of things that have passed away, Fragments of stone, reared by creatures of clay! There he sate all heavily, As he heard the night-wind sigh. He had resumed it in that hour, But Conscience wrung away the power. He gazed, he saw; he knew the face Of beauty, and the form of grace; It was Francesca by his side, The maid who might have been his bride!

The rose was yet upon her cheek, But mellowed with a tenderer streak: Where was the play of her soft lips fled?

Gone was the smile that enlivened their red. And ere yet she made reply, Once she raised her hand on high; It was so wan, and transparent of hue, You might have seen the moon shine through. I have passed the guards, the gate, the wall; Sought thee in safety through foes and all. I come—and if I come in vain, Never, oh never, we meet again! But dash that turban to earth, and sign The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; Wring the black drop from thy heart, And tomorrow unites us no more to part.

In the midst of the dying and the dead? For tomorrow we give to the slaughter and flame The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. A young woman embarks on a journey A theatrical and poetic re-imagining of a fairy tale that explores the themes of identity, intimacy Following a successful tour in Australia, award-winning, Gaulier-trained comedian, Viggo Venn brings The lives of the curious and playful creatures known as the Trunks are changed forever with the Why leave the future to your children when you can have it for yourself?

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Learn how to preserve your A young, fresh, stylized perspective on a classic tale. This modern gender-bending version from This is slam style, make some noise, fist-thumping, pint-drinking, side-tickling, heart-wrenching Forget everything you know about karaoke, cause this is a life-changer. Whether you're a local or a Multi-awarded tragicomic, gothic, Shakespearean story performed by the ghost of Ophelia.

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Hilarious mating dances, poetic imagery, intense physicality, folksongs and hymns. Being middle-aged, gay, and married is difficult enough without having a mildly annoying accent Back by popular demand, a traditional Scottish ceilidh hosted by the wonderful Caledonian Club The annual Fringe market-place. A fast-paced, tantalising, one-minute preview of many of the Please contact info goout. WWI rages but an art movement is born, a You could travel inside your imagination?

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Visit planets and meet unknown life forms? Drawing together strands of poetry, theatre and music, American poet Lucien Zell merges various The Prague Fringe is up and running, taking over the city with it's world class theatre, comedy, Comedy horror inspired by classic and contemporary tales of the macabre. By the creators of sell-out The crew behind the scenes take the spotlight! Come in and get down to the favourite tunes of our A contemporary take on the life of the infamous French model and artist of the 20s, Alice Prin, Meet the Aussie cleaning lady everybody loves to love!

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Fringe Programme test. A solo show blending spoken word, storytelling and visual theatre. This powerful piece of new Primeval forests and concrete jungles, wolves and mothers, and the unquiet dead:

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