IX.

His head was leant upon his hand, His eye looked o'er the dark blue water That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the winding Dardanelles; But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, Nor even his Pacha's turbaned band Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, Careering cleave the folded felt[142] With sabre stroke right sharply dealt; Nor marked the javelin-darting crowd, 250 Nor heard their Ollahs[143] wild and loud-- He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter!