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!