^t- v^' 
 
 •^^ 
 
 -^■.^^ 
 
 
 -^- . , '-^ ■ .^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 \ .^ 
 
 
 
 v 
 
 ^0 
 
 
 
 o 0' 
 
 
 A^' %^ \,^' 
 
 ^>' 
 
 
 ,x>.^' ">,. 
 
 

 
 
 ry .^ 
 
 
 ^^ •^, 
 
 o 
 
 c^. 
 
 V- v"- 
 
 .H -7- , 
 
 oH -7- 
 
 ■.V ■>< 
 
 
 ./ 
 
 ^0 C- 
 
 '^ 0i-^r -V:, ^^ 
 
 .0 
 
 ■^r 
 
 
 
 \^ * .^ 
 
 
 '^<ilJJ-3^ > " 
 
 .^^' •^;, 
 
 
 .-JT' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 -\ 
 
 ^' ^, 
 
 -?- 
 
 ^0 : 
 
 
 
 
 ,0 o 
 
 ^ '' 
 
 
 V^' s 
 
 '^, .-^^ 
 
 ■^^ c 
 
 o 
 
 vV '•^ 
 
 ^>^^^/V*^'^'-\n^' . 
 
 
 oV 
 
 
 
 o 0' 
 
 
 x'-^ - 
 
 
% 
 
l\. ■ '?\ I ■ 
 
 P '^1 II 1. .*\ P E p. P H 1 A 
 
 ■£'MW M'f- 
 
TALES AND POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIVE ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, 
 
 Jrnm Drs 13110 bn ?.]rnrn JCiTlarTfn, 
 
 AND A PORTRAIT OF ZULEIKA BY J. -W. WEIGHT. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 
 184 9. 
 
\ \N3 
 
 
 -^-' ■■"" 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 Printed by T. K. & P. G. Collins. 
 
 1 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 The Giaour 5 
 
 The Bride of Abybos 71 
 
 The Corsair 127 
 
 Lara 205 
 
 Siege of Corinth 259 
 
 Parisini 307 
 
 Prisoner of Chillon 339 
 
 Beppo .......... 361 
 
 Mazeppa 411 
 
[The " Giaour" was published in May, 1813, and abundantly 
 sustained the impression created by the first two cantos of Childe 
 Harold. It is obvious that in this, the first of his romantic nar- 
 ratives, Lord Byron's versification reflects the admiration he 
 always avowed for Mr. Coleridg-e's " Christabel," — the irregular 
 rhythm of which had already been adopted in the " Lay of the 
 Last Minstrel." The fragmentary style of the composition was 
 suggested by the then new and popular " Columbus" of Mr. 
 Rogers. As to the subject, it was not merely by recent travel 
 that the author had familiarized himself with Turkish history. 
 " Old Knolles," he said at Missolonghi, a few weeks before his 
 death, " was one of the first books that gave me pleasure when 
 a child ; and I believe it had much influence on my future wishes 
 to visit the Levant, and gave, perhaps, the oriental colouring 
 which is observed in my poetry." In the margin of his copy of 
 Mr. D'Israeli's Essay on the Literary Character, we find the 
 following note : — " Knolles, Cantemir, De Tott, Lady M. W. 
 Montague, Hawkins's translation from Mignot's History of the 
 Turks, the Arabian Nights — all travels or histories, or books 
 upon the East, I could meet with, I had read, as well as Ricaut, 
 before I was ten years old."] 
 
THE GIAOUR: 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 " One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
 Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
 To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
 For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting." 
 
 Moore. 
 
SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN 
 
 OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, 
 
 RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, 
 
 AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED 
 AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 
 
 BXRQN. 
 
 London, May, 1813. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The tale which these disjointed fragments present, 
 is founded upon circumstances now less common in 
 the East than formerly ; either because the ladies are 
 more circumspect than in the " olden time," or be- 
 cause the Christians have better fortune, or less enter- 
 prise. The story, when entire, contained the adven- 
 tures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
 Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
 avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time 
 the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
 Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back 
 from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some 
 time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The de- 
 sertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder 
 of Misitra, led to the abandoimient of that enterprise, 
 and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the 
 cruelty exercised on all sides, was unparalleled even 
 in the annals of the faithful.^ 
 
 * [An event, in which Lord Byron was personally concerned, 
 undoubtedly supplied the groundwork of this tale; but for the 
 story, so circumstantially put forth, of his having himself been 
 the lover of this female slave, there is no foundation. The girl 
 whose life the poet saved at Athens was not, we are assured by 
 Sir John Hobhouse, an object of his lordship's attachment, but 
 that of his Turkish servant. For the Marquis of Sligo's account 
 of the affair, see Moore's Notices, vol. ii. p. 189.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
 That tomb' which, gleaming o'er the clitl', 
 First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
 High o'er the land he saved in vain ; 
 When shall such hero live again ? 
 
 Fair clime !^ where every season smiles 
 Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
 
 * A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed 
 the sepulchre of Themistocles. — ["There are," says Cumber- 
 land, in his Observer, " a few lines by Plato, upon the tomb of 
 Themistocles, which have a turn of elegant and pathetic simpli- 
 city in them, that deserves a better translation than I can give : — 
 ' By the sea's margin, on the watery strand. 
 Thy monument, Themistocles, shall stand : 
 By this directed, to thy native shore 
 The merchant shall convey his freighted store ; 
 And when our fleets are summoned to the fight, 
 Athens shall conquer with thy tomb in sight.' "] 
 ^ ["Of the beautiful flow of Byron's fancy," says Moore, 
 "when its sources were once opened on any subject, the Giaour 
 affords one of the most remarkable instances : this poem having 
 accumulated under his hand, both in printing and through suc- 
 cessive editions, till, from four hundred lines, of which it con- 
 sisted in its first copy, it at present amounts to fourteen hundred. 
 The plan, indeed, which he had adopted, of a series of frag- 
 ments, — a set of ' orient pearls at random strung' — left him free 
 to introduce, without reference to more than the general com- 
 plexion of his story, whatever sentiments or images his fancy, in 
 
14 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Which, seen from far Colontia's height, 
 Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
 And lend to loneliness delight. 
 [There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
 Reflects the tints of many a peak 
 Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
 These Edens of the eastern wave: 
 And if at times a transient breeze 
 Break the blue crystal of the seas. 
 Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
 How welcome is each gentle air 
 That wakes and wafts the odours there ! 
 
 its excursions, could collect; and, how little fettered he was by 
 any regard to connection in these additions, appears from a note 
 which accompanied his own copy of this paragraph, in which he 
 says — ' I have not yet fixed the place of insertion for the follow- 
 ing lines, but will, when I see you — as I have no copy.' Even 
 into this new passage, rich as it was at first, his fancy afterwards 
 poured a fresh infusion." — The value of these after-touches of 
 tlie master may be appreciated by comparing the following verses, 
 from his original draft of this paragraph, with the form which 
 they now wear : — 
 
 " Fair clime ! where ceaseless summer smiles, 
 Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 
 Which, seen from far Colonna's height. 
 Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
 And give to loneliness delight. 
 There shine the bright abodes ye seek. 
 Like dimples upon Ocean'' s cheek, 
 So smMing round the waters lave 
 These Edens of the eastern wave. 
 Or if, at times, the transient breeze 
 Break the smooth crystal of the seas, 
 Or brush one blossom from the trees, 
 How grateful is the gentle air 
 That waves and wafts ihe fragrance there." 
 
 The whole of this passage, from line 7, down to line 167, " Who 
 heard it first hud cause to grieve," was not in the first edition."] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 15 
 
 For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
 Sultana of the nightingale/ 
 
 The maid for whom his melody, 
 His thousand songs are heard on high, 
 Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
 His queen, the garden queen, his rose. 
 Unbent by winds, imchili'd by snows. 
 Far from the winters of the west, 
 By every breeze and season blest, 
 Returns the sweets by nature given 
 In softest incense back to heaven ; 
 And grateful yields that smiling sky 
 Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
 And many a summer flower is there. 
 And many a shade that love might share, 
 And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
 That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
 Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
 Lm'ks for the passing peaceful prow. 
 Till the gay mariner's guitar^ 
 Is heard, and seen the evening star ; 
 Then stealing with the muffled oar, 
 Far shaded by the rocky shore, 
 
 * The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-known 
 Persian fable. If I mistake not, the " Bulbul of a thousand 
 tales" is one of his appellations. [Thus Mesihi, as translated 
 by Sir William Jones : — 
 
 " Come, charming maid ! and hear thy poet sing, 
 Thyself the rose, and he the bird of spring : 
 Love bids him sing, and Love will be obey'd. 
 Be gay : too soon the flowers of spring will fade."] 
 
 - Tlie guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor 
 by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is ac- 
 companied always by the voice, and often by dancing. 
 
16 THE GIAOUR, 
 
 Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
 
 And turn to groans his roundelay. 
 
 Strange — that where Nature loved to trace, 
 
 As if for gods, a dwelling-place, 
 
 And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
 
 Within the paradise she fix'd. 
 
 There man, enamour'd of distress, 
 
 Should mar it into wilderness, 
 
 And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
 
 That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
 
 Nor claims the culture of his hand 
 
 To bloom along the fairy land, 
 
 But springs as to preclude his care, 
 
 And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 
 
 Strange — that where all is peace beside, 
 
 There passion riots in her pride, 
 
 And lust and rapine wildly reign 
 
 To darken o'er the fair domain. 
 
 It is as though the fiends prevail'd 
 
 Against the seraphs they assail'd. 
 
 And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 
 
 The freed inheritors of hell ; 
 
 So soft the scene, so form'd for joy. 
 
 So cursed the tyrants that destroy ! 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead' 
 Ere the first day of death is fled, 
 
 * [If once the public notice is drawn to a poet, the talents he 
 exhibits on a nearer view, the weight his mind carries with it in 
 his every-day intercourse, somehow or other, are reflected around 
 on his compositions, and co-operate in giving a collateral force to 
 their impression on the public. To this we must assign some part 
 of the impression made by the " Giaour." The thirty-five lines 
 beginning " He who hath bent him o'er the dead," are so beauti- 
 ful, so original, and so utterly beyond the reach of any one whose 
 
THE GIAOUR. 17 
 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 
 
 The last of danger and distress, \ 
 
 (Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Have swept the hnes where beauty lingers,) 
 
 And mark'd the mild angelic air. 
 
 The rapture of repose that's there,* 
 
 The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
 
 The languor of the placid cheek. 
 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 
 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathy^ 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart,^ 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 Yes, but for these and these alone, 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour. 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd !•* 
 
 poetical genius was not very decided, and very rich, that they 
 alone, under the circumstances explained, were sufficient to se- 
 cure celebrity to this poem. — Sir E. Brydges.] 
 
 ' [" And mark'd the almost dreaming air, 
 
 Which speaks the sweet repose that's there." — MS.] 
 
 '^ "Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
 To lye in cold obstruction V 
 
 Measure for Measure, act iii. sc. 2. 
 
 3 ["Whose touch thrills with mortality. 
 
 And curdles at the gazer's heart." — MS.] 
 
 * I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity 
 of witnessing what is here attempted in description; but those 
 who have, will probably retain a painful remembrance of that 
 singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the fea- 
 tures of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the 
 
18 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 'Tis Greece, but hving Greece no more !' 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, ' 
 We start, for soul is wanting there'. 
 Hers is the loveliness in death, 
 Tliat parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
 The farewell beam of Feeling past away ! '' 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd 
 earth I^ 
 
 Clime of the unforgotten brave I^ 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave ! 
 
 spirit is not there." It is to be remarked in cases of violent death 
 by gunshot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, 
 whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character; but in 
 death from a stab, the countenance preserves its traits of feeling 
 or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the last. 
 
 * [In Dallaway's Constantinople, a book which Lord Byron is 
 not unlikely to have consulted, I find a passage quoted from 
 Gillies's History of Greece, which contains, perhaps, the first seed 
 of the thought thus expanded into full perfection by genius : — 
 "The present state of Greece compared to the ancient, is the 
 silent obscurity of the grave contrasted with the vivid lustre of 
 active life." — Moore.] 
 
 2 [There is infinite beauty and effect, though of a painful and 
 almost oppressive character, in this extraordinary passage ; in 
 which the author has illustrated the beautiful, but still and me- 
 lancholy aspect of the once busy and glorious shores of Greece, 
 by an image more true, more mournful, and more exquisitely 
 finished, than any that we can recollect in the whole compass of 
 poetry. — Jeffrey.] 
 
 3 [From this line to the conclusion of the paragraph, the MS. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 19 
 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
 Tliat this is all remains of thee ? 
 Approach, thou craven, crouching slave : 
 
 Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
 These waters blue that round you lave. 
 
 Oh servile offspring of the free — 
 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
 The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
 These scenes, their story not unknown, 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
 The embers of their former fires ; 
 And he who in the strife expires 
 Will add to theirs a name of fear, 
 That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
 They too will rather die tlian shame :* 
 For Freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son. 
 Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
 Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ! 
 Attest it, many a deathless age! 
 I While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
 Have left a nameless pyramid, 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 A mightier monument command. 
 The mountains of their native land ! 
 
 is written in a hurried and almost illegible hand, as if these 
 splendid lines had been poured forth in one continuous burst of 
 poetic feeling, which would hardly allow time for the liand to 
 follow the rapid flow of the imagination.] 
 
 ^ ["And he who in the cause expires, 
 
 Will add a name and fate to them 
 Well worthy of his noble stem." — MS.] 
 
20 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 There points thy Muse to stranger's eye, 
 The graves of those that cannot die ! 
 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, 
 Each step from splendour to disgrace ; 
 Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
 Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
 Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
 To villain-bonds and despot sway. 
 
 What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 
 
 No legend of thine olden time. 
 No theme on which the Muse might soar 
 High as thine own in days of yore. 
 
 When man was worthy of thy clime.) 
 The hearts within thy valleys bred, 
 The fiery souls that might have led 
 
 Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
 Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
 Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,' 
 
 And callous, save to crime ; 
 Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
 Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 
 Without even savage virtue blest. 
 Without one free or valiant breast. 
 Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 
 Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
 In this the subtle Greek is found, 
 For this, and this alone, renown'd : 
 In vain might Liberty invoke 
 The spirit to its bondage broke, 
 
 * Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the slave of the 
 seraglio and guardian of the women,) who appoints the Way- 
 wode. A pander and eunuch — these are not polite, yet true ap- 
 pellations — now governs the governor of Athens ! 
 
f^ 
 
THE GIAOUR. 21 
 
 Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
 No more her sorrows I bewail, 
 Yet this will be a mournful tale ; 
 And they who listen' may believe, 
 Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 
 
 Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
 The shadows of the rocks advancing 
 Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
 Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
 And fearful for his light caique, 
 He shuns the near but doubtful creek : 
 Though worn and weary with his toil. 
 And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
 Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
 Till Port Leone's safer shore 
 Receives him by the lovely light 
 That best becomes an Eastern night. 
 
 Who thundering comes on blackest steed/ 
 With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? 
 Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
 The cavern'd echoes wake around 
 In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
 
 * [The reciter of the tale is a Turkish fisherman, who has been 
 employed during the day in the gulf of yEgina, and in the even- 
 ing, apprehensive of the Mainote pirates who infest the coast of 
 Attica, lands with his boat on the harbour of Port Leone, the 
 ancient Piraeus. He becomes the eye-witness of nearly all the in- 
 cidents in the story, and in one of them is a principal agent. It 
 is to his feelings, and particularly to his religious prejudices, that 
 we are indebted for some of the most forcible and splendid parts 
 of the poem. — George Ellis.] 
 
23 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 The foam that streaks the courser's side 
 Seems gather'd from the ocean tide : 
 Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
 There's none within his rider's breast ; 
 And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
 'Tis cahiier than thy heart, young Giaour !' 
 I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
 But in thy lineaments I trace 
 What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
 Though young and pale, that sallow front 
 Is scathed by fiery })assion's brunt ; 
 Though bent on earth, thine evil eye, 
 As meteor-like thou glidest by, 
 Right well I view, and deem thee one 
 Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 
 
 On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
 My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
 Though like a demon of the night 
 He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, 
 His aspect and his air impress'd 
 A troubled memory on my breast, 
 And long upon my startled ear 
 Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
 He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep. 
 That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
 He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
 The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
 For well I ween unwelcome he 
 Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
 
 ' [In Dr. Clarke's Travels, this word, which means Fiifidel, is 
 always written according to its English pronunciation, Djour. 
 Lord Byron adopted the Italian spelling usual among the Franks 
 of the Levant E.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 23 
 
 And not a star but shines too bright 
 
 On him wlio takes such timeless flight. 
 
 He wound along ; but ere he pass'd 
 
 One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
 
 A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
 
 A moment breathed him from his speed, 
 
 A moment on his stirrup stood — 
 
 Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
 
 The crescent glimmers on the hill, 
 
 The mosque's high lamps are quivering still ; 
 
 Though too remote for sound to wake 
 
 In echoes of the far tophaike,* 
 
 The flashes of each joyous peal 
 
 Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
 
 To-night set Rhamazani's sun ; 
 
 To-night the Bairam feast's begun ; 
 
 To-night — but who and what art thou 
 
 Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
 
 And what are these to thine and thee, 
 
 That thou should'st either pause or flee ? 
 
 He stood — some dread was on his face, 
 Soon Hatred settled in its place : 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 Of transient Anger's hasty blush/ 
 
 * "Tophaike," musket. The Bairam is announced by the 
 cannon at sunset : the illumination of the mosques, and the firing 
 of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaim it during 
 the night. 
 
 ^ l^'- Hasty blush." — For hasty ^ all the editions till the twelfth 
 read " darkening blush." On the back of a copy of the eleventh 
 Lord Byron has written, "Why did not the printer attend to the 
 solitary correction so repeatedly made 1 I have no copy of this, 
 and desire to have none till my request is complied with."] 
 
24 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
 
 Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
 
 His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ; 
 
 He raised his arm, and fiercely raised. 
 
 And sternly shook his hands on high, 
 
 As doubting to return or fly : 
 
 Impatient of his flight delay'd. 
 
 Here loud his raven charger neigh'd ; 
 
 Down glanced that hand andgrasp'd his blade ;* 
 
 That sound had burst his waking dream, 
 
 As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
 
 The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
 
 Away, away, for life he rides : 
 
 Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed^ 
 
 Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
 
 The rock is doubled, and the shore 
 
 Shakes with the clattering tramp no more : 
 
 The crag is won, no more is seen 
 
 His Christian crest and haughty mien.^ 
 
 * ["Then turn'd it swiftly to his blade, 
 
 As loud his raven charger neigh'd." — MS.] 
 
 2 Jerreed, or djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is dart- 
 ed from horseback with great force and precision. It is a favour- 
 ite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but I know not if it can be 
 called a manly one, since the most expert in the art are the black 
 eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these, a Mamlouk 
 at Smyrna was the most skilful that came within my observa- 
 tion. 
 
 3 [Every gesture of the impetuous horseman is full of anxiety 
 and passion. In the midst of his career, whilst in full view of 
 the astonished spectator, he suddenly checks his steed, and rising 
 on his stirrup, surveys, with a look of agonizing impatience, the 
 distant city illuminated for the feast of Bairam ; then pale with 
 anger, raises his arm as if in menace of an invisible enemy ; but 
 awakened from his trance of passion by the neighing of his 
 charger, againhurries forward, and disappears. — George Ellis.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 25 
 
 'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 
 
 That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ;* 
 
 'Twas but a moment that he stood, 
 
 Then sped as if by death pursued ; 
 
 But in that instant o'er his soul 
 
 Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 
 
 And gather in that drop of time 
 
 A life of pain, an age of crime. 
 
 O'er him who loves, or liates, or fears, 
 
 Such moment pours tire grief of years : 
 
 What felt he then, at once oppress'd 
 
 By all that most distracts the breast ? 
 
 That pause which ponder'd o'er his fate. 
 
 Oh ! who its dreary length shall date ! 
 
 Though in Time's record nearly nought. 
 
 It was eternity to Thought ! 
 
 For infinite as boundless space 
 
 The thought that conscience must embrace, 
 
 Which in itself can comprehend 
 
 Woe without name, or hope, or end. 
 
 The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
 And did he fly or fall alone .'^ 
 Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
 The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
 To turn a palace to a tomb ; 
 He came, he went, hke the simoom,^ 
 That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
 
 1 [" 'Twas but an instant, though so long 
 
 When thus dilated in my song." — MS.]] 
 - [" But neither fled nor fell alone," — MS.] 
 ^ The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and often 
 alluded to in eastern poetry. [Abyssinian Bruce gives, perhaps, 
 
26 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Beneath whose widely wastmg breath 
 The very cypress droops to death- 
 Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled. 
 The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 
 
 The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
 No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
 The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
 Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ;* 
 The bat builds in his harem bovver, 
 And in the fortress of his power 
 The owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 
 The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
 With baffled thirst and famine grim f 
 
 the liveliest account of the appearance and effects of the suffo- 
 cating blast of the Desert : — " At eleven o'clock," he says, "while 
 we contemplated with great pleasure the rugged top of Chiggre, 
 to which we were fast approaching, and where we were to solace 
 ourselves with plenty of good water, Idris, our guide, cried out 
 with a loud voice, ' Fall upon your faces, for here is the simoom.' 
 I saw from the south-east a haze come, in colour like the purple 
 part of the rainbow, but not so compressed or thick. It did not 
 occupy twenty yards in breadth, and was about twelve fcethigh 
 from the ground. It was a kind of blush upon the air, and it 
 moved very rapidly ; for I scarce could turn to fall upon the 
 ground, with my head to the northward, when I felt the heat of 
 its current plainly upon my face. We all lay fiat on the ground 
 as if dead, till Idris told us it was blown over. The meteor, or 
 purple haze, which I saw, was, indeed, passed, but thelightair, 
 which still blew, was of a heat to threaten suffocation. For my 
 part, I found distinctly in my breast that I had imbibed a partof 
 it ; nor was I free of an asthmatic sensation till I had been some 
 months in Italy, at the baths of Poretta, near two years after- 
 wards." — See Bruce's Life and Travels, p. 470, edit. 1830.] 
 
 ^ ["The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
 
 Is curtain'd on the splendid wall." — MS.] 
 
 ^ ["The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brink, 
 But vainly tells his tongue to drink." — MS.] 
 
T H E G I A O U R. 27 
 
 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
 
 Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. 
 
 'Twas sweet of yore to see it play 
 
 And chase the sultriness of day, 
 
 As, springing high, the silver dew 
 
 In whirls fantastically flew. 
 
 And flung luxurious coolness round 
 
 The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
 
 'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 
 
 To view the wave of watery light, 
 
 And hear its melody by night. 
 
 And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 
 
 Around the verge of that cascade ; 
 
 And oft upon his mother's breast 
 
 That sound had harmonized his rest ; 
 
 And oft had Hassan's youth along 
 
 Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song ; 
 
 And softer seem'd each melting tone 
 
 Of music mingled with its own. 
 
 But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 
 
 Along the brink at twilight's close : 
 
 The stream that fiU'd that font is fled — 
 
 The blood that warm'd his heart is shed !' 
 
 And here no more shall human voice 
 
 Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
 
 The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
 
 Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
 
 That quench'd in silence, all is still, 
 
 But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 
 
 Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 
 
 No hand shall close its clasp again, ^ 
 
 * ["For thirsty fox and jackal gaunt 
 
 May vainly for its waters pant."] 
 s [This part of the narrative not only contains much brilliant 
 
28 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 
 
 The rudest steps of fellow-man, 
 
 So here the very voice of grief 
 
 Might wake an echo like relief — 
 
 At least 'twould say, "All are not gone : 
 
 There lingers life, though but in one" — 
 
 For many a gilded chamber's there, 
 
 Which Solitude might well forbear ;' 
 
 Within that dome as yet decay 
 
 Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 
 
 But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate. 
 
 Nor there the fakir's self will wait, 
 
 and just description, but is managed with unusual taste. The 
 fisherman has, hitherto, related nothing more than the extraordi- 
 nary phenomenon which had excited his curiosity, and of which 
 it is his immediate object to explain the cause to his hearers ; 
 but instead of proceeding to do so, he stops to vent his execra- 
 tions on the Giaour, to describe the solitude of Hassan's once 
 luxurious harem, and to lament the untimely death of the owner, 
 and of Leila, together with the cessation of that hospitality w.iich 
 they had uniformly experienced. He reveals, as if unintention- 
 ally and unconsciously, the catastrophe of his story : but he thus 
 prepares his appeal to the sympathy of his audience, without 
 much diminishing their suspense. — George Ellis.] 
 
 ' [" I have just recollected an alteration you may make in the 
 proof. Among the lines on Hassan's serai, is this — 
 
 ' Unmeet for solitude to share.' 
 
 Now, to share implies more than one, and Solitude is a single 
 gentleman ; it must be thus — 
 
 'For many a gilded chamber's there. 
 Which Solitude might well forbear ;' 
 
 and so on. Will you adopt this correction 1 and pray accept a 
 Stilton cheese from me for your trouble. — P. S. I leave this to 
 your discretion: if anybody thinks the old line a good one, or 
 the cheese a bad one, don't accept of either." — B. Letters, Stilton, 
 Oct. 3, 1813.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 29 
 
 Nor there will wandering dervise stay, 
 
 For bounty cheers not his delay ; 
 
 Nor there will weary stranger halt 
 
 To bless the sacred "bread and salt."' 
 
 Alike must Wealth and Poverty 
 
 Pass heedless and unheeded by, 
 
 For Courtesy and Pity died 
 
 With Hassan on the mountain side. 
 
 His roof, that refuge unto men, 
 
 Is Desolation's hungry den. 
 The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre !^ 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet, 
 But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
 More near — each turban I can scan, 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan;* 
 The foremost of the band is seen 
 An emir by his garb of green:* 
 
 * To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your host, 
 insures the safety of the guest : even though an enemy, his per- 
 son from that moment is sacred. 
 
 ^ I need hardly observe, that charity and hospitality are the 
 first duties enjoined by Mahomet; and to say truth, very gene- 
 rally practised by his disciples. The first praise that can be 
 bestowed on a chief, is a panegyric on his bounty ; the next, on 
 his valour. 
 
 ^ The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, in 
 a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among the wealthier, 
 gilt, or of gold. 
 
 * Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's numerous 
 pretended descendants ; with them, as here, faith (the family in- 
 heritance) is supposed to supersede ihe necessity of good works : 
 they are the worst of a very indifterent brood. 
 
30 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 " Ho ! who art thou ?" — " This low salam^ 
 
 Replies of Moslem faith I am." — 
 
 " The burden ye so gently bear, 
 
 Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
 
 And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
 
 My humble bark would gladly wait." 
 
 " Thou speakest sooth : thy skiff unmoor, 
 And waft us from the silent shore ; 
 Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
 The nearest oar that's scatter'd by. 
 And midway to those rocks where sleep 
 The channelPd waters dark and deep. 
 Rest from your task — so — bravely done. 
 Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
 Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow. 
 That one of— * * * 
 
 Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank; 
 I Avatch'd it as it sank ; methought 
 Some motion from the current caught 
 Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 
 That checker'd o'er the living stream : 
 I gazed, till, vanishing from view, 
 Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
 Still less and less, a speck of white 
 That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 
 And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
 Known but to genii of the deep, 
 
 * " Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam !" peace be with you ; 
 be with you peace — the salutation i^served for the faithful : — to 
 a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey; or "saban hiresem, 
 saban serula;" good morn, good even; and sometimes, 'Mnay 
 your end be happy ;" are the usual salutes. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 31 
 
 Which, trembling in their coral caves, 
 They dare not whisper to the waves. 
 
 As rising on its purple wing 
 The insect-queen' of eastern spring, 
 O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
 Invites the young pursuer near. 
 And leads him on from flower to flower 
 A weary chase and wasted hour, 
 Then leaves him, as it soars on high. 
 With panting heart and tearful eye : 
 So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 
 With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
 A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
 Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
 If won, to equal ills betray'd,^ 
 Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
 A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
 From infant's play, and man's caprice : 
 The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
 Hath lost its charm by being caught, 
 For every touch that woo'd its stay 
 Hath brush'd its brightest hues away. 
 Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
 With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
 Ah ! where shall either victim rest? 
 Can this with faded pinion soar 
 From rose to tulip as before ? 
 
 * The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and 
 beautiful of the species. 
 
 » [" If caught, to fate alike betray'd." — MS.] 
 
32 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Or Beauty, blighted in an -.hour, 
 Find joy within her broken bower ? 
 No : gayer insects fluttering by 
 Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die. 
 And loveher things have mercy shown 
 To every faihng but their own. 
 And every woe a tear can claim 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 
 The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 
 
 Is like the scorpion girt by fire,^ 
 In circle narrowing as it glows,^ 
 The flames around their captive close, 
 Till inly search'd by thousand throes, 
 
 And maddening in her ire. 
 One sad and sole relief she knows, 
 The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
 Whose venom never yet was vain, 
 Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
 And darts into her desperate brain :^ 
 So do the dark in soul expire. 
 Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; 
 
 * Mr. Dallas says, that Lord Byron assured him that the para- 
 graph containing the simile of the scorpioa was imagined in his 
 sleep. It forms, therefore, ^. pendaiit to the "psychological curi- 
 osity," beginning with those exquisitely musical lines : — 
 " A damsel with a dulcimer 
 In a vision once I saw ; 
 It was an Abyssinian maid," &c. 
 
 The whole of which, Mr. Coleridge says, was composed by him 
 
 during a siesta. 
 
 ^ ["The gathering flames around her close." — MS.] 
 
 3 Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed for 
 
T H E G I A U R. 33 
 
 So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,^ 
 Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
 Darkness above, despair beneath, 
 Around it flame, within it death ! 
 
 Black Hassan from the harem flies, 
 Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
 The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
 Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
 Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
 When Leila dwelt in his serai. 
 Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? 
 That tale can only Hassan tell : 
 Strange rumours in our city say 
 Upon that eve she fled away 
 When Rhamazan's^ last sun was set, 
 And flashing from each minaret 
 Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
 Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
 'Twas then she went as to the bath, 
 Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
 For she was flown her master's rage 
 In likeness of a Georgian page, 
 
 experiment by gentle philosophers. Some maintain that the 
 position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is merely 
 a convulsive movement; but others have actually brought in the 
 verdict " Felo de se." The scorpions are surely interested in a 
 speedy decision of the question ; as, if once fairly established 
 as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as long as 
 they think proper, without being martyred for the sake of an 
 hypothesis. 
 
 ' ["So writhes the mind by Conscience riven." — MS.] 
 
 2 The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. 
 
34 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 
 Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
 
 Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
 
 But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 
 Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
 
 And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
 
 And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
 
 Such is the tale his Nubians tell. 
 
 Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
 
 But others say, that on that night. 
 
 By pale Phingari's' trembling light. 
 
 The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
 
 Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
 
 With bloody spur along the shore, 
 
 Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
 
 Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
 But gaze on that of the gazelle, 
 It will assist thy fancy well ; 
 As large, as languishingly dark, 
 But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
 That darted from beneath the lid, 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.^ 
 
 ' Phingari, the moon. 
 
 ^ The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the em- 
 bellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendour, named Schebgerag;, 
 " the torch of night ;" also " the cup of the sun," &c. In the 
 first edition, " Giamschid" was written as a word of three syl- 
 lables ; so D'Herbelot has it ; but I am told Richardson reduces 
 it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jamshid." I have left in the text 
 the orthography of the one with the pronunciation of the other. 
 — [In the first edition. Lord Byron had used this word as a 
 trisyllable, — " Bright as the gem of Giamschid," — but, on my 
 
THE GIAOUR. 35 
 
 Yea, soul, and should our prophet say 
 That form was naught but breathing clay, 
 By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
 Though on Al-Sirat's^ arch I stood, 
 Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
 With Paradise within my view, 
 And all his houris^ beckoning through. 
 Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
 And keep that portion of his creed, 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ?^ 
 
 remarking to him, upon the authority of Richardson's Persian 
 Dictionary, that this was incorrect, he altered it to " Bright as 
 the ruby of Giamschid." On seeing- this, however, I wrote to 
 him, " that, as the comparison of his heroine's eye to a ruby 
 might unluckily call up the idea of its being bloodshot, he had 
 better change the line to ' Bright as the jewel of Giamschid;' " 
 which he accordingly did, in the following edition. — Moore.] 
 
 * Al-Sirat, the bridge of breath, narrower than the thread of a 
 famished spider, and sharper than the edge of a sword, over which 
 the Mussulmans must skate into Paradise, to which it is the only 
 entran'je; but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell 
 itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful and tender 
 of foot contrive to tumble with a " facilis descensus Averni," not 
 very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is a 
 shorter cut downwards for the .Tews and Christians. 
 
 * [The virgins of Paradise, called, from their large black eyes, 
 Hiir al cyun. An intercourse with these, according to the in- 
 stitution of Mahomet, is to constitute the principal felicity of the 
 faithful. Not formed of clay like mortal women, they are adorned 
 with unfading charms, and deemed to possess the celestial pri- 
 vilege of an eternal youth. See D'Herbelot, and Sale's Ko- 
 ran.— E.] 
 
 ^ A vulgar error : the Koran allots at least a third of Paradise 
 to well-behaved women ; but by far the greater number of Mus- 
 sulmans interpret the text their own way, and exclude their 
 moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
 discern " any fitness of things" in the souls of the other sex, 
 conceiving them to be superseded by the houris. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 On her might muftis gaze, and own 
 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 
 The young pomegranate's* blossoms strew 
 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 
 Her hair in hyacinthine^ flow, 
 
 When left to roll its folds below, 
 
 As midst her handmaids in the hall 
 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 
 Gleam'd whiter than the mountain slee 
 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 
 It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter. 
 
 The loveliest birth of Franguestan !^ 
 
 As rears her crest the muffled swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
 Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
 Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
 Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? 
 Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
 
 * An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly stolen, 
 be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arable." 
 
 ^ Hyacinthine, in Arabic " Sunbul ;" as common a thought in 
 the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. 
 
 ^ " Franguestan," Circassia. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 37 
 
 Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en, 
 With twenty vassals in his train, 
 Each arm'd as best becomes a man, 
 With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
 The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
 Bears in his belt the scimitar 
 Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 
 When in the pass the rebels stood. 
 And few return'd to tell the tale 
 Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 Were those that once a pasha wore. 
 Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side ; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower ; 
 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
 And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
 In cities lodged too near his lord. 
 And trembling for his secret hoard — 
 Here may he rest where none can see. 
 In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
 And with forbidden wine may stain 
 The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
 
38 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 The foremost Tartar's in the gap 
 Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
 The rest in lengthening line the while 
 Wind slowly through the long defile : 
 Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
 Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
 And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 
 Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
 Has shriuik before the summer beam. 
 And left a channel bleak and bare. 
 Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
 Each side the midway path there lay 
 Small broken crags of granite gray. 
 By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
 From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
 For where is he that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
 
 They reach the grove of pine at last ; 
 " Bismillah !^ now the peril's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain. 
 And there we'll prick our steeds amain:" 
 The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
 A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
 The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 
 
 Scarce had they time to check the rein. 
 Swift from their steeds the riders bound ! 
 
 But three shall never mount again : 
 Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 
 
 The dying ask revenge in vain. 
 
 1 " In the name of God ;" the commencement of all the chap- 
 ters of the Koran but one, and of prayer and thanksgiving. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 39 
 
 With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 
 
 Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
 Some fly beneath the nearest rock, 
 And there await the coming shock, 
 
 Nor tamely stand to bleed 
 Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
 Stern Hassan only from his horse 
 Disdains to hght, and keeps his course 
 Till fiery flashes in the van 
 Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
 Have well secured the only way 
 Could now avail the promised prey ; 
 Then curl'd his very beard^ with ire, 
 And glared his eye with fiercer fire ; 
 " Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
 I've scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
 And now the foe their covert quit, 
 And call his vassals to submit ; 
 But Hassan's frown and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
 Nor of his little band a man 
 Resign'd carbine or ataghan. 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaim !^ 
 
 * A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussulman. 
 In 1809, the Capitan Pasha's whiskers at a diplomatic audience 
 were no less lively with indignation than a tiger cat's, to the 
 horror of all the dragomans; the portentous mustachios twisted, 
 they stood erect of their own accord, and were expected every 
 moment to change their colour, but at last condescended to sub- 
 side, which, probably, saved more heads than they contained 
 hairs. 
 
 ^ " Amaun," quarter, pardon. 
 
40 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 In fuller sight, more near and near, 
 The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
 And, issuing from the grove, advance 
 Some who on battle-charger prance. 
 Who leads them on with foreign brand 
 Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
 " 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
 I know him by his palUd brow ; 
 I know him by the evil eye' 
 That aids his envious treachery ; 
 I know him by his jet-black barb ; 
 Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
 Apostate from his own vile faith. 
 It shall not save him from the death : 
 'Tis he ! well met in any hour, 
 Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour !" 
 
 As rolls the river into ocean. 
 In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 
 
 As the sea-tide's opposing motion. 
 In azure column proudly gleaming. 
 Beats back the current many a rood, 
 In curling foam and mingling flood. 
 While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
 Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
 Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, 
 The lightnings of the waters flash 
 In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
 That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
 
 ^ The "evil eye," a common superstition in the Levant, and 
 of vi'hich the imaginary effects are yet very singular on those 
 who conceive themselves affected. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 41 
 
 Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
 With waves that madden as they meet — 
 Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
 And fate, and fury, drive along. 
 The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 
 And pealing wide or ringing near 
 Its echoes on the throbbing ear. 
 The deathshot hissing from afar; 
 The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
 Reverberate along that vale, 
 More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
 Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
 That neither spares nor speaks for life !^ 
 Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
 To seize and share the dear caress ; 
 But Love itself could never pant 
 For all that Beauty sighs to grant, 
 With half the fervour Hate bestows 
 Upon the last embrace of foes, 
 When grappling in the fight they fold 
 Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
 Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith ; 
 True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
 
 With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
 
 Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
 
 Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
 
 His turban far behind him roU'd, 
 
 And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
 
 * ["That neither gives nor asks for life." — MS.] 
 
42 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
 
 And crimson as tliose clouds of morn 
 
 That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
 
 The day shall have a stormy end ; 
 
 A stain on every bush that bore 
 
 A fragment of his palampore,^ 
 
 His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 
 
 His back to earth, his face to heaven. 
 
 Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
 
 Yet lowering on his enemy. 
 
 As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
 
 Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
 
 And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
 
 As dark as his that bled below. — 
 
 " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave. 
 But his shall be a redder grave ; 
 Her spirit pointed well the steel 
 Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
 He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
 Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : 
 He call'd on Alia — but the word 
 Arose unheeded or unheard. 
 Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
 Be pass'd, and thine accorded there .-* 
 I watch'd my time, I leagued with these. 
 The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
 My wrath is wreak'd, the dead is done. 
 And now I go — but go alone." 
 
 The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 43 
 
 The browsing camels' bells are tinkling :' 
 His mother look'd from her lattice high — '^ 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pasture green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
 " 'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh."^ 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower; 
 "Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 
 Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
 Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
 
 ' [This beautiful passage first appeared in the fifth edition. 
 " If you send more proofs," writes Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, 
 (August 10th, 1813,) "I shall never finish this infernal story. 
 Ecce Signum — thirty-three more lines enclosed ! — to the utter 
 discomfiture of the printer, and, I fear, not to your advantage."] 
 
 2 ["The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, and cried 
 through the lattice, Why is his chariot so long in coming? why 
 tarry the wheels of his chariot]" — Judges ch. v. ver. 26.] 
 
 ^ [In the original draught — 
 
 " His mother look'd from the lattice high. 
 
 With throbbing heart and eager eye ; 
 The browsing camel bells are tinkling, 
 And the last beam of twilight twinkling: 
 
 'Tis eve ; his train should now be nigh. 
 She could not rest in her garden bower, 
 And gazed through the loop of her steepest tower. 
 ' W hy comes he not ] his steeds are fleet. 
 And well are they trained to the summer's heat.*" 
 
 Another copy began — 
 
 "The browsing camel bells are tinkling. 
 And the first beam of evening twinkling, 
 His mother looked from her lattice high. 
 With throbbing breast and eager eye — 
 ' 'Tis twiliffht — sure his train is nigh.' " 
 
44 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
 Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
 And warily the steep descends, 
 And now within the valley bends ; 
 And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — 
 How could I deem his courser slow ? 
 Right well my largess shall repay 
 His welcome speed, and weary way." 
 
 The Tartar lighted at the gate. 
 
 But scarce upheld his fainting weight :' 
 
 His swarthy visage spake distress, 
 
 But this might be from weariness ; 
 
 His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 
 
 But these might be from his courser's side ; 
 
 He drew the token from his vest — 
 
 Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest ! 
 
 His calpac^ rent — his caftan red — 
 
 " Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed : 
 
 Me, not from mercy did they spare, 
 
 But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
 
 Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt : 
 
 Woe to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 
 
 ******* 
 
 A turban^ carved in coarsest stone, 
 A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 
 
 * [" And flung to earth his fainting weight." — MS.] 
 ^ The calpac is a solid cap or centre part of the headdress ; 
 the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. 
 
 •* The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs 
 of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. In 
 the mountain you frequently pass similar mementos; and on 
 inquiry you are informed that they record some victim of rebel- 
 lion, plunder, or revenge. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 45 
 
 Whereon can now be scarcely read 
 
 The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
 
 Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
 
 A victim in that lonely dell. 
 
 There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
 
 As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
 
 As ever scorn 'd forbidden wine, 
 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
 
 In orisons resumed anew 
 
 At solemn sound of " Alia Hu !'" 
 
 Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
 
 And stranger in his native land ; 
 
 Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
 
 And unavenged, at least in blood. 
 
 But him the maids of Paradise 
 
 Impatient to their halls invite. 
 And the dark heaven of houris' eyes 
 
 On him shall glance forever bright ; 
 They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 
 ' " Alia Hu !" the concluding words of the muezzin's call to 
 prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the minaret. 
 On a still evening, when the muezzin has a fine voice, which is 
 frequently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all 
 the bells in Christendom. — [Valid, the son of Abdalmalek, was 
 the first who erected a minaret or turret; and this he placed 
 on the grand mosque at Damascus, for the muezzin, or crier to 
 announce from it the hour of prayer. See D'Herbelot.] 
 
 ^ The following is part of a battle song of the Turks : — " 1 
 see — I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a hand- 
 kerchief, a kerchief of green; and cries aloud, 'Come, kiss me, 
 for I love thee,' " &c. 
 
46 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 But thou, false infidel ! shalt writhe 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's' scythe ; 
 And from its torment 'scape alone 
 To wander round lost Eblis'^ throne ; 
 And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
 Around, within, thy heart shall dwell! 
 Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
 The tortures of that inward hell ! 
 But first on earth, as vampire^ sent. 
 Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent : 
 
 * Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before 
 whom the corpse undero^oes a slight noviciate and preparatory 
 training for damnation. If the answers are none of the clearest, 
 he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red-hot 
 mace till properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary proba- 
 tions. The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but 
 two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small pro- 
 portion to the remainder, their hands are always full. See Relig. 
 Ceremon. and Sale's Koran. 
 
 2 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. — [D'Herbelot sup- 
 poses this title to have been a corruption of the Greek AiaSoXoi. 
 It was the appellation conferred by the Arabians upon the prince 
 of the apostate angels. According to Arabian mythology, Eblis 
 had suffered a degradation from his primeval rank for having re- 
 fused to worship Adam, in conformity to the Supreme command ; 
 alleging, in justification of his refusal, that himself had been 
 formed of ethereal fire, whilst Adam was only a creature of clay. 
 See Koran.] 
 
 ^ The vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. 
 Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in the 
 notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these " Vroucolochas," as he 
 calls them. The Romaic term is " Vardoulacha." I recollect a 
 whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they 
 imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks 
 never mention the word without horror. I find that " Brouco- 
 lokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so 
 applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his 
 
THE GIAOUR. 47 
 
 Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
 And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
 There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
 At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
 Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
 Must feed thy livid living corse : 
 Thy victims, ere they yet expire. 
 Shall know the demon for their sire, 
 As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
 Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
 But one that for thy crime must fall. 
 The youngest, most beloved of all. 
 Shall bless thee with ^ father^ s name — 
 That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
 Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
 Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
 And the last glassy glance must view 
 Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
 Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
 The tresses of her yellow hair. 
 Of which in life a lock when shorn, 
 Afilection's fondest pledge was worn. 
 But now is borne away by thee, 
 Memorial of thine agony ! 
 Wet with thine own best blood shall drip' 
 Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
 Then stalking to thy sullen grave. 
 Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
 
 death animated by the Devil. The moderns, however, use the 
 word I mention. 
 
 ^ The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with 
 blood, are the never-failing signs of a vampire. The stories 
 told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, 
 and some of them most incredibly attested. 
 
48 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Till these in horror shrink away 
 
 From spectre more accursed than they !' 
 
 " How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 
 
 His features I hav^e scann'd before 
 In mine own land : 'tis many a year 
 
 Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
 I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
 As ever served a horseman's need. 
 But once I saw that face, yet then 
 It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
 I could not pass it by again ; 
 It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
 As death were stamp'd upon his brow. 
 
 " 'Tis twice three years at summertide 
 Since first among our freres he came ; 
 
 And here it soothes him to abide 
 
 For some dark deed he will not name. 
 
 But never at our vesper prayer, 
 
 Nor e'er before confession chair 
 
 1 [With the death of Hassan, or with his interment on the 
 place where he fell, or with some moral reflections on his fate, 
 we may presume that the original narrator concluded the tale of 
 which Lord Byron has professed to give us a fragment. But 
 every reader, we are sure, will agree with us in thinking, that 
 the interest excited by the catastrophe is gi-eatly heightened in 
 the modern poem ; and that the imprecations of the Turk against 
 the "accursed Giaour," are introduced with great judgment, and 
 contribute much to the dramatic effect of the narrative. The 
 remainder of the poem, we think, would have been more pro- 
 perly printed as a second canto; because a total change of scene, 
 and a chasm of no less than six years in the series of events, can 
 scarcely fail to occasion some little confusion in the mind of the 
 reader. — George Ellis.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 49 
 
 Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
 Incense or anthem to the skies, 
 But broods witiiin his cell alone, 
 His faith and race alike unknown. 
 The sea from Paynim land he cross'd, 
 And here ascended from the coast; 
 Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
 But only Christian in his face : 
 I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
 Repentant of the change he made. 
 Save that he shuns our holy shrine. 
 Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
 Great largess to these walls he brought. 
 And thus our abbot's favour bought ; 
 But were I prior, not a day 
 Should brook such stranger's further stay. 
 Or pent within our penance cell, 
 Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
 Much in his visions mutters he 
 Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea f 
 Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
 Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
 On cliff he had been known to stand. 
 And rave as to some bloody hand 
 Fresh sever'd from its parent limb. 
 Invisible to all but him. 
 Which beckons onward to his grave. 
 And lures to leap into the wave." 
 
 ["Of foreign maiden lost at sea." — MS.] 
 
50 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Dark and unearthly is the scowl* 
 That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
 The flash of that dilating eye 
 Reveals too much of times gone by ; 
 Though varying, indistinct its hue, 
 Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 
 For in it lurks that nameless spell, 
 
 'Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
 A spirit yet unquell'd and high. 
 That claims and keeps ascendency ; 
 
 (^ And like the bird whose pinions quake. 
 But cannot fly the gazing snake, 
 Will others quail beneath his look, 
 
 SNoi 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 
 From him the half-afl"righted friar 
 When met alone would fain retire. 
 As if that, eye and bitter smile 
 Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 
 Not oft to smile descendeth he, 
 
 , And when he doth 'tis sad to see 
 
 (That he but mocks at misery. 
 How that pale lip will curl and quiver ! 
 
 (Then fix once more as if forever; 
 As if his sorrow or disdain 
 
 (Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
 Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 
 From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
 But sadder still it were to trace 
 What once were feelings in that face : 
 
 * [The remaining lines, about five hundred in number, were, 
 with the exception of the last sixteen, all added to the poem, 
 either during its first progress through the press, or in subse- 
 quent editions.'' 
 
THE GIAOUR. 51 
 
 Time hath net yet the features fix'd, 
 
 But brighter traits with evil mix'd : 
 
 And there are hues not always faded, 
 
 Which speak a mind not all degraded, 
 
 Even by the crimes through which it waded : 
 
 The common crowd but see the gloom 
 
 Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom: 
 
 The close observer can espy 
 
 'A noble soul, and lineage high : 
 
 Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain. 
 
 Which grief could change, and guilt could stain. 
 
 It was no vulgar tenement 
 
 To which such lofty gifts were lent, 
 
 And still with little less than dread 
 
 On such the sight is riveted. 
 
 The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 
 
 Will scarce delay the passer-by , 
 The tower by war or tempest bent, 
 While yet may frown one battlement. 
 
 Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
 Each ivied arch, and pillar lone. 
 Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 
 
 " His floating robe around him folding. 
 
 Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle 
 With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
 
 The rites that sanctify the pile. 
 But when the anthem shakes the choir. 
 And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
 By yonder lone and wavering torch 
 His aspect glares within the porch ; 
 There will he pause till ajl is done — 
 (And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
 
52 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 See — by the half-illumined wall' 
 His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
 That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
 As if the Gorgon there had bound 
 The sablest of the serpent-braid 
 That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
 For he declines the convent oath. 
 And leaves those locks unhallow'd growtij. 
 But wears our garb in all beside ; 
 And not from piety but pride, 
 Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
 Of his one holy vow nor word. 
 Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
 Peals louder praises to the sky. 
 That livid cheek, that stony air 
 Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 
 Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 
 Else may w e dread the wrath divine 
 Made manifest by awful sign. 
 If ever evil angel bore 
 The form of mortal, such he wore ; 
 By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
 S Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !" 
 
 To love the softest hearts are prone. 
 But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
 Too timid in his woes to share. 
 Too meek to meet or brave despair ; 
 -- And sterner hearts alone may feel 
 (The wound that time can never heal. 
 The rugged metal of the mine 
 Must burn before its surface shine,^ 
 
 ["Behold — as turns he from the wall." — MS.] 
 [" Must burn before it smite or shine." — MS.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 53 
 
 But plunged within the furnace flame, 
 It bends and melts — though still the same 
 Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 
 'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 
 A breastplate for thine hour of need, 
 Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
 But if a dagger's form it bear. 
 Let those who shape its edge, beware ! 
 "^Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
 'Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 
 <^From these its form and tone are ta'en. 
 And what they make it, must remain. 
 But break — before it bend aarain. 
 
 . / 
 
 If solitude succeed to grief, 
 
 Release from pain is slight relief; 
 /The vacant bosom's wilderness '|^ 
 /Might thank the pang that made it less: 
 
 ^ [Seeing himself accused of having, in this passage, too 
 closely imitated Crabbe, Lord Byron wrote to a friend — " I have 
 read the British Review, and really think the writer in most 
 points very right. The only mortifying thing is, the accusation 
 of imitation. Crabbe's passage I never saw; and Scott I no 
 further meant to follow than in his Ij/ric measure, which is Gray's, 
 Milton's, and any one's who likes it. The Giaour is certainly a 
 bad character, but not dangerous ; and I think his fate and his 
 feelings will meet with few proselytes." The following are 
 the lines of Crabbe which Lord Byron is charged with having 
 imitated : — 
 
 "These are like wax — apply them to the fire. 
 
 Melting, they take the impression you desire ; 
 
 Easy to mould and fashion as you please, 
 
 And again moulded with as equal ease ; 
 
 Like smelted iron these the forms retain, 
 
 But once impress'd will never melt again." 
 
 Works, voL V. p. 163, ed, 1831.] 
 
54 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 We loathe what none are left to share : 
 Even bliss — 'twere woe alone to bear ; 
 The heart once left thus desolate 
 Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
 It is as if the dead could feel 
 The icy worm around them steal, 
 And shudder, as the reptiles creep, 
 To revel o'er their rotting sleep. 
 Without the power to scare away 
 The cold consumers of their clay ! 
 It is as if the desert bird,^ 
 
 Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 
 To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, 
 Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
 Should rend her rash, devoted breast, 
 And find them flown her empty nest. , 
 cThe keenest pangs the wretched find 
 Are rapture to the dreary void, ,.' 
 (The leafless desert of the mind, > 
 
 ( The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
 Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
 A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
 Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
 Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
 Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
 A lonely wreck on fortune's shore. 
 Mid sullen calm, and silent bay. 
 Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
 / Better to sink beneath the shock 
 Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 
 
 ' The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the imputst- 
 tion of feeding her chickens with her blood. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 55 
 
 " Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
 
 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 
 To bid the sins of others cease, 
 
 Thyself without a crime or care, 
 Save transient ills that all must bear, 
 Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
 And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
 Of passions fierce and uncontroU'd, 
 Such as thy penitents unfold, 
 Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
 Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
 JNIy days, though few, have pass'd below 
 In much of joy, but more of woe ; 
 Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
 I've 'scaped the weariness of life : 
 Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
 I loathed the languor of repose. 
 Now nothing left to love or hate. 
 No more with hope or pride elate, 
 I'd rather be the thing that crawls 
 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
 Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
 Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
 Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
 For rest; — ^but not to feel 'tis rest. 
 Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 
 
 And I shall sleep without the dream 
 Of what I was, and would be still. 
 
 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. 
 
 ["Though hope hath long withdrawn her beam." — MS.] 
 
56 THE GTAOUR. 
 
 My spirit shrunk not to sustaui 
 
 The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 
 
 Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
 
 Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
 
 Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
 
 And in the field it had been sweet, 
 
 Had danger woo'd me on to move 
 
 The slave of glory, not of love. 
 
 I've braved it — not for honour's boast ; 
 
 I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
 
 To such let others carve their way. 
 
 For high renown, or hireling pay : 
 
 But place again before my eyes 
 
 Aught that I deem a worthy prize ; 
 
 The maid I love, the man I hate, 
 
 And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
 
 To save or slay, as these require. 
 
 Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
 
 Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one 
 
 Who would but do — what he hath done. 
 
 Death is but what the haughty brave, 
 
 The weak must bear, the wretch must crave 
 
 Then let life go to him who gave : 
 
 I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
 
 When high and happy — need I now ? 
 
 '• I loved her, friar ! nay, adored — 
 
 But these are words that all can use — 
 
 I proved it more in deed than word ; 
 
 There's blood upon that dinted sword, 
 A stain its steel can never lose : 
 
 'Twas shed for her who died for me, 
 It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
 
THE GIAOUR. 57 
 
 Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 
 
 Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
 Thou wilt absolve me from the deed. 
 For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
 The very name of Nazarene 
 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
 Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
 Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
 And wounds by Galileans given, 
 The surest pass to Turkish heaven. 
 For him his houris still might wait 
 Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
 I loved her — love will find its way 
 Through paths where wolves would fear to prey; 
 And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
 If passion met not some reward — 
 No matter how, or where, or why, 
 I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 
 Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
 I wish she had not loved again. 
 She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
 But look — 'tis written on my brow ! 
 There read of Cain the curse and crime. 
 In characters unworn by time : 
 Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
 Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
 Yet did he but what I had done 
 Had she been false to more than one. 
 Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
 But true to me, I laid him low : 
 Howe'er deserved her doom might be. 
 Her treachery was truth to me ; 
 To me she gave her heart, that all 
 Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 
 
58 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
 
 Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
 
 'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
 
 His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
 
 Has made me — what thou well mayst hate. 
 
 His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
 Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
 Deep in whose darkly boding ear^ 
 The deatlishot peal'd of murder near, 
 
 As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
 
 ' Tliis superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met with 
 downright second-sight in the East) fell once under my own ob- 
 servation. On my third journey to Cape Colonna, early in 1811, 
 as we passed through the defile that leads from the hnmlet be- 
 tween Keratia and Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding 
 rather out of the path, and leaning his head upon his h;ind, as if 
 in pain. I rode up and inquired. "We are in peril," he an- 
 swered. "What peril] we are not now in Albania, nor in the 
 passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; there are plenty of 
 us, well armed, and the Choriates have not courage to be thieves." 
 — "True, AfTendi, but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my 
 ears." — "The shot ! not a tophaike has been fired this morning." 
 — "I hear it, notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as plainly as I 
 hear your voice." — " Psha !" — " As you please, AfTendi ; if it is 
 written, so will it be." — I left this quick-eared predestinarian, 
 and rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose ears, 
 though not at all prophetic, by no means relished the intelligence. 
 We all arrived at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned 
 leisurely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more languages 
 than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Ro- 
 maic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, 
 in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we 
 were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied 
 about the columns. I though he was deranged into an anti- 
 quarian, and asked him if he had become a '■'■ Palao-caslru''' man ? 
 " No," said he, " but these pillars will be useful in making a 
 stand ;" and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own 
 belief in his troublesome faculty of forehearing. On our return 
 to Athens we heard from Leone (a prisoner set ashore some dajs 
 
THE GIAOUR. 59 
 
 He died too in the battle broil, 
 
 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
 
 One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
 
 One prayer to Alia all he made : 
 
 He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
 
 I gazed upon him where he lay. 
 
 And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
 
 Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, 
 
 He felt not half that now I feel. 
 
 I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
 
 The workings of a wounded mind ; 
 
 Each feature of that sullen corpse 
 
 Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
 
 Oh ! what had vengeance given to trace 
 
 Despair upon his dying face ! 
 
 The late repentance of that hour. 
 
 When Penitence hath lost her power 
 
 after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the 
 cause of its not taking place, in the notes to Childe Harold, canto 
 2d. I was at some pains to question the man, and he described 
 the dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so accu- 
 rately, that, with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his 
 having' been in " villanous company," and ourselves in a bad 
 neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare 
 say is now hearing more musketry than ever will be fired, to the 
 great refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- 
 tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular race. In 
 March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaout came (I be- 
 lieve the fiftieth on the same errand) to ofter himself as an at- 
 tendant, which was declined : " Well, Affendi," quoth he, " may 
 you live ! — you would have found me useful. I shall leave the 
 town for the hills to-morrow ; in the winter I return, perhaps you 
 will then receive me." — Dervish, who Was present, remarked as 
 a thing of course, and of no consequence, "in the mean time he 
 will join the Klephtes," (robbers,) which was true to the letter. 
 If not cut off, they come down in the winter, and pass it unmo- 
 lested in some town, where they are often as well known as their 
 exploits. 
 
60 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 ( To tear one terror from the grave, 
 / And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
 
 ^' The cold in clime are cold in blood. 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name 
 But mine was like the lava flood, 
 
 That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vein,* 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain. 
 If bursting heart, and maddening brain. 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel. 
 And all that I have felt, and feel, 
 Betoken love — that love was mine, 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 i die — but first I have possess'd. 
 And come what may, I have been bless'd. 
 Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
 No — reft of aU, yet undismay'd'^ 
 But for the thought of Leila slain. 
 Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
 So would I live and love again. 
 I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
 For him who dies, but her who died: 
 
 [" I cannot prate in puling strain 
 
 Of bursting heart and maddening brain, 
 And fire that raged in every vein." — MS.] 
 
 [" Even now alone yet undismay'd, — 
 
 I know no friend, and ask no aid." — MS.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 61 
 
 She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
 Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 
 This breaking heart and throbbing head 
 Should seek and share her narrow bed.^ 
 
 ( She was a form of life and light, 
 
 / That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
 
 ) And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, 
 
 ) The morning-star of memory ! 
 
 " Yes, love indeed is light from heaven f 
 
 A spark of that imniortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Alia given, 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 
 ' [These, in our opinion, are the most beautiful passages of the 
 poem ; and some of them of a beauty which it would not be easy 
 to eclipse by many citations in the language. — Jeffrey.] 
 
 ^ [The hundred and twenty-six lines which follow, down to 
 "Tell me no more of fancy's gleam," first appeared in the fifth 
 edition. In returning the proof to Mr. Murray, Lord Byron 
 says : — "I have, but with some difficulty, 7iot added anymore to 
 this snake of a poem, which has been lengthening its rattles every 
 month. It is now fearfully long, being more than a canto and a 
 half of Childe Harold. The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not 
 often he does; and when he don't, he tells me with great energy, 
 and I fret, and alter. I have thrown them in to soften the fero- 
 city of our infidel ; and, for a dying m.an, have given him a good 
 deal to say for himself. Do you know anybody who can stop — 
 I mean poirii — commas, and so forth 1 for I am, I hear, a sad 
 hand at your punctuation." Among the Giaour MSS. is the first 
 draught of this passage, which we subjoin : 
 "Yes r ") doth spring ~| 
 
 -< Love indeed t descend l- from heaven ; 
 If (^ J be born J 
 
 {immortal ~) 
 eternal I fire, 
 celestial J 
 To Imman hearts in mercy given. 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 
62 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Devotion wafts the mind above, 
 
 But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
 
 To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
 
 A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
 
 A glory circling round the soul ! 
 
 I grant my love imperfect, all 
 
 That mortals by the name miscall ; 
 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
 
 But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
 
 She was my life's unerring light : 
 
 That quench'd, what beam shall break my night ?* 
 
 Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
 
 Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
 
 Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
 This present joy, this future hope, 
 No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
 
 In frenzy then their fate accuse : 
 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
 
 C each ^ 
 To wean from self \ > sordid thought ; 
 
 ^ our ^ ° 
 
 Devotion sends the soul above, 
 
 But Heaven itself descends to love. 
 
 Yet marvel not, if they who love 
 This present joy, this future hope, 
 Which taught them with all ill to cope, 
 
 In madness then their fate accuse — 
 
 In madness do those fearful deeds 
 
 ~, C to add but sfuilt to ? 
 
 That seem < , , , ^ ^ ^ • r woe. 
 
 ^ but to augment their ^ 
 
 Alas ! the ^ , > that inly bleeds, 
 
 Has naught to dread from outward foe," &c.] 
 
 [" That quench'd, I wander'd far in night." 
 
 Or, 
 
 " 'Tis quench'd, and I am lost in night." — MS.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 63 
 
 In madness do those fearful deeds 
 
 That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
 Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 
 
 Hath naught to dread from outward blow 
 Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
 Cares little into what abyss. 
 Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 
 
 To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
 I read abhorrence on thy brow, 
 
 And this too was I born to bear ! 
 'Tis true, that like the bird of prey. 
 With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
 But this was taught me by the dove. 
 To die — and know no second love. 
 :This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
 j Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
 ) The bird that sings within the brake, 
 \ The swan that sings upon the lake, 
 (One mate, and one alone will take. 
 And let the fool, still prone to range, ^ 
 And sneer on all who cannot change. 
 Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
 I envy not his varied joys, 
 But deem such feeble, heartless man. 
 Less than yon solitary swan ; 
 Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
 He left believing and betray'd. 
 Such shame at least was never mine — 
 Leila I each thought was only thine ! 
 My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
 My hope on high — my all below. 
 
 [" And let the light, inconstant fool, 
 
 That sneers his coxcomb ridicule." — MS.] 
 
64 THEGIAOUR. 
 
 Earth holds no other Hke to thee, 
 Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
 For worlds I dare not view the dame 
 Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
 The very crimes that mar my youth, 
 This bed of death attest my truth ! 
 'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
 The cherish 'd madness of my heart ! 
 
 "And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 
 But not the breath of human life : 
 { A serpent round my heart was wreathM, 
 And stung my every thought to strife. 
 
 Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, 
 
 Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face. 
 
 Where every hue that charm'd before 
 
 The blackness of my bosom wore. 
 
 The rest thou dost already know, 
 
 And all my sins, and half my woe : 
 
 But talk no more of penitence ; 
 
 Thou seest I soon shall part from hence : 
 
 And if thy holy tale were true, 
 
 The deed that's done canst thou undo ? 
 
 Think me not thankless — but this grief 
 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief,^ 
 
 My soul's estate in secret guess :^ 
 'But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
 
 ' The monk's sermon is omitted. Tt seems to have had so little 
 effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from the 
 reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary 
 length, (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness 
 of the patient,) and was delivered in the usual tone of all ortho- 
 dox preachers. 
 
 '^ [ "but this grief 
 
 In truth is not for thy relief. 
 
 My state thy thought can never guess." — MS.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 65 
 
 When thou canst bid my Leila live. 
 Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
 Then plead my cause in that high place 
 Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
 Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
 From forest cave her shrieking young, 
 And calm the lonely lioness : 
 But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 
 
 ^" In earlier days, and calmer hours. 
 
 When heart with heart delights to blend, 
 Where bloom my native valley's bowers,' 
 
 I had — Ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
 To him this pledge I charge thee send, 
 
 Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
 I would remind him of my end :- 
 
 Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 
 Brief thought to distant friendship's claim. 
 Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
 'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom. 
 
 And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
 When Prudence would his voice assume, 
 
 And warn — I reck'd not what — the while 
 But now remembrance whispers o'er 
 Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
 Say — that his bodings came to pass, 
 
 And he will start to hear their truth, 
 
 And wish his words had not been sooth : 
 Tell him, unheeding as I was, 
 
 Through many a busy bitter scene 
 
 Of all our golden youth had been, 
 
 [" Where rise my native city's towers." — MS.] 
 
 T" I have no heart to love him now. 
 
 And 'tis but to declare my end." — MS.] 
 
66 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Ill pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
 To bless his memory ere I died ; 
 But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
 If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
 I do not ask him not to blame. 
 Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
 And what have I to do with fame ? 
 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 wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
 The wrack by passion left behind, 
 A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
 Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 
 
 " Tell me no more of fancy's gleam. 
 No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
 Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
 I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 
 But could not, for my burning brow 
 Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
 .1 wish'd but for a single tear, 
 As something welcome, new, and dear : 
 I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
 Despair is stronger than my will. 
 Waste not thine orison, despair' 
 Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
 I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
 I want no paradise, but rest. 
 
 [" Nay — kneel not, father, rise — despair," &c. — MS.] 
 
THE GIAOUR. 67 
 
 'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 
 I saw her ; yes, slie Uved again ; 
 And shining in her white symar,' 
 As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
 Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
 ^,Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
 Dimly I view its trembling spark f 
 To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 
 And I, before its rays appear, 
 That lifeless thing the livhig fear. 
 I wander, father ! for my soul 
 Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
 I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
 Forgetful of our former woes ; 
 And rushing from my couch I dart. 
 And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
 I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
 No breathing form within my grasp. 
 No heart that beats reply to mine. 
 Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
 V And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
 C As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
 Ah ! were \k\^ beauties e'er so cold, 
 I care not ; so my arms enfold 
 The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
 Alas ! around a shadow press'd 
 They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
 Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 With braided hair, and bright black eye — 
 I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 
 But he is dead ! within the dell 
 I saw him buried where he fell ; 
 
 • " Symar," a shroud. 
 
 2 [" Which now I view with trembling spark." — MS.] 
 
68 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 He comes not, for he cannot break 
 From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
 They told me wild waves roU'd above 
 The face I view, the form I love ; 
 They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
 I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
 If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
 Thou comest to claim a calmer grave, 
 Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
 This brow that then will burn no more ; 
 Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
 But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art. 
 In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
 Or farther with thee bear my soul 
 Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 
 
 " Such is my name, and such my tale. 
 
 Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
 I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 
 
 And thank thee for the generous 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. "^ 
 
 ' The circumstance to which the above story relates was not 
 very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchtar 
 Pasha complained to his father of his son's supposed infidelity ; he 
 asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of 
 the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, 
 fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night ! 
 One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of 
 the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so 
 sudden a "wrench from all we know, from all we love." The 
 fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many 
 
THE GIAOUR. 69 
 
 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 loved, of him he slew.^ 
 
 a Romaic and Arnaout ditty. The story in tlie text is one told of 
 a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. I 
 heard it by accident recited by one of the coffeehouse story-tellers 
 who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. 
 The additions and interpolations by the translator will be easily 
 distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery ; and 
 I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the 
 original. For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
 partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, and, as Mr. 
 Weber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the "Caliph Vathek." 
 I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume 
 may have drawn his mateiials ; some of his incidents are to be 
 found in the " Bibliotheque Orientale;" but for correctness of cos- 
 tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it f;;r 
 surpasses all European imitations ; and bears such marks of ori- 
 ginality, that those who have visited the East will find some ditfi- 
 culty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an East- 
 ern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley" 
 will not bear a comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." 
 
 ' [" Nor whether most he mourn'd none knew, 
 
 For her he loved or him he slew." — MS.] 
 
 ^ [In this poem, which was published after the two first cantos 
 of Childe Harold, Lord Byron began to show his power. He 
 had now received encouragement which set free his daring hands 
 and gave his strokes their natural force. Here, then, we first 
 find passages of a tone peculiar to Lord Byron ; but still this 
 appearance was not uniform : he often returned to his trammels, 
 and reminds us of the manner of some favourite predecessor : 
 among these, I think we sometimes catch the notes of Sir "Walter 
 Scott. But the internal tempest — the deep passion, sometimes 
 buried, and sometimes blazing from some incidental touch — the 
 intensity of agonizing reflection, which will always distinguish 
 Lord Byron from other writers — now began to display them- 
 selves. — Sir Egerton Brydges.] 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS: 
 
 A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 '« Had we, never loved so kindly, 
 Had we never loved so blindly, 
 Never met or never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
 
 Burns. 
 
["The Bride of Abydos" was published in the beginning of 
 December, 1813, The mood of mind in which it was struck off 
 is thus stated by Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Gilford : — " You 
 have been good enough to look at a thing of mine in MS. — a 
 Turkish story — and I should feel gratified if you would do it the 
 same favour in its probationary state of printing. It was written, 
 I cannot say for amusement, nor ' obliged by hunger and request 
 of friends,' but in a state of mind, from circumstances which 
 occasionally occur to ' us youth,' that rendered it necessary for 
 me to apply my mind to something, any thing but reality ; and 
 under this not very brilliant inspiration it was composed. Send 
 it either to the flames, or 
 
 ' A hundred hawkers' load. 
 
 On wings of winds to fly or fall abroad.' 
 
 It deserves no better than the first, as the work of a week, and 
 scribbled ' stans pede in uno;' (by-the-by, the only foot I have to 
 stand on ;) and I promise never to trouble you again under forty 
 cantos, and a voyage between each."] 
 
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 LORD HOLLAND, 
 
 THIS TALE 
 
 IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD 
 
 AND RESPECT, 
 
 BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED 
 
 AND SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.^ 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle'^ 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their 
 clime? 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine. 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 
 shine ; 
 
 * [" Murray tolls me that Croker asked him why the thing is 
 called the Bride of Abydos ? It is an awkward question, being 
 unanswerable; she is not a bride; only about to bo one. I don't 
 wonder at his finding out thobull ; but the detection is too late to 
 do any good. I was a great fool to have made it, and am ashamed 
 of not being an Irishman." — Byron Diary, Dec. G, 1813.] 
 
 - To the Bride of Abydos Lord Byron made many additions 
 during its progress through the press, amounting to about two 
 hundred lines ; and, as in the case of the Giaour, the passages so 
 added will be seen to be some of the most splendid in the whole 
 poem. These opening lines, which are among the new insertions, 
 are supposed to have been suggested by a song of Goethe's — 
 " Kennst du das Land wo die citronen bliihn."] 
 
76 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with per- 
 fume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of GuP in her bloom ; 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is nmte : 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
 In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in die ; 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 
 
 done? 2 
 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
 they tell. 
 
 II. 
 
 Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
 Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
 Awaiting each his lord's behest 
 To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
 Old Giaffir sate in his divan : 
 
 Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
 And though the face of Mussulman 
 Not oft betrays to standers by 
 The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
 All but unconquerable pride. 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 ' "Gtll," the rose. 
 
 * ' Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, 
 
 With whom revenge is virtue." — -Young's Revenge. 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 77 
 
 III. 
 
 " Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disap- 
 pear'd — 
 
 " Now call me the chief of the harem guard." 
 With Giaffir is none but his only son, 
 
 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
 
 " Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
 
 Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 
 
 (Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
 
 My child Zuleika's face unveil 'd !) 
 
 Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 
 
 Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 
 
 Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
 
 By me alone be duty taught !" 
 
 " Pasha ! to hear is to obey." 
 No more must slave to despot say — 
 Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
 But here young Selim silence brake, 
 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
 And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 
 
 Still standing at the pasha's feet: 
 For son of Moslem must expire, 
 Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 
 
 " Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
 My sister, or her sable guide, 
 Know — for the fault, if fault there be. 
 Was mine, — then fall thy frowns on me — 
 So lovelily the morning shone, 
 
 That — let the old and weary sleep — 
 I could not ; and to view alone 
 
 The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 With none to listen and reply 
 To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
 Were irksome — for whate'er my mood, 
 In sooth I love not solitude; 
 I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
 And, as thou knowest that for me 
 Soon turns the harem's grating key, 
 Before the guardian slaves awoke 
 We to the cypress groves had flown, 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
 There lingered we, beguiled too long 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ;^ 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour^ 
 Beat thy divan's approaching hour. 
 To thee, and to my duty true, 
 Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
 But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
 Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
 That none can pierce that secret bower 
 But those who watch the women's tower." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Son of a slave" — the pasha said — 
 
 " From unbelieving mother bred. 
 
 Vain were a father's hope to see 
 
 Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
 
 Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow. 
 And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
 Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed. 
 
 Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
 
 * 
 
 ' Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, 
 the moral poet of Persia. 
 
 2 Tambour. Turkish drum, wliich sounds at sunrise, noon, 
 and twiliofht. 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 79 
 
 And watch unfolding roses blow. 
 Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
 Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
 Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
 Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
 By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
 Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
 Before the dogs of Moscow fall. 
 Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
 Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
 Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
 But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
 And hark — of thine own head take heed- 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string !" 
 
 V. 
 
 No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 
 
 At least that met old Giafiir's ear, 
 But every frown and every word 
 Pierced keener than a Christian's sword 
 
 " Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear ! 
 Those gibes had cost another dear. 
 Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ?" 
 
 Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 
 And glances e'en of more than ire 
 Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
 Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
 
 And started ; for within his eye 
 He read how much his wrath had done ; 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 
 '•' Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
 
80 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
 But there be deeds thou darest not do ; 
 But if thy beard had manher length, 
 And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
 I'd joy to see thee break a lance. 
 Albeit against my own, perchance," 
 
 As sneeringly these accents fell, 
 On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 
 
 That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
 And proudly to his sire's was raised, 
 
 Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance— 
 And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
 " Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
 Will one day work me more annoy : 
 I never loved him from his birth. 
 And — but his arm is little worth, 
 And scarcely in the chase could cope 
 With timid fawn or antelope. 
 Far less would venture into strife 
 Where man contends for fame and life — 
 I would not trust that look or tone : 
 No — nor the blood so near my own. 
 That blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
 I'll watch him closer than before. 
 He is an Arab^ to my sight. 
 Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
 But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 
 
 Like houris' hymn it meets mine ear ; 
 She is the offspring of my choice ; 
 
 Oh ! more than even her mother dear. 
 
 ' The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compliment a 
 hundred fold) even more than they hate the Christians. 
 
;.-lL-Clddh. 
 ni that niii 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 81 
 
 With all to hope, and naught to fear — 
 My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
 Sweet as the desert fountain's wave 
 ; To lips just cool'd in time to save — 
 
 Sucli to my longing sight art thou ; 
 Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
 More thanks for life, than I for thine, 
 
 Who bless'd thy birth and bless thee now." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Fair as the first that fell of womankind. 
 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
 Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 
 
 But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
 Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
 
 To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
 When heart meets heart agam in dreams Elysian, 
 
 And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
 Soft as the memory of buried love ; 
 Pure as the prayer which Childhood wafts above ; 
 Was she — the daughter of that rude old chief. 
 Who met the maid with tears — ^but not of grief 
 
 Who hath not proved how feebly words essay" 
 To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray ? 
 Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own delight. 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
 The rnight — the majesty of Loveliness ? 
 Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
 
 * [These twelve fine lines were added in the course of print- 
 ing-] 
 
82 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 The light of love, the purity if grace, 
 
 The mind, the music' breathing from her face,^ 
 
 * This expression lias met with objections. I will not refer to 
 " Him who hath not music in his soul," but merely request the 
 reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the woman 
 whom he believes to be the most beautiful ; and, if he then does 
 not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, 
 I shall be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the latest 
 work of the first female writer of this, perhaps of any age, on 
 the analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that ana- 
 logy) between "painting and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10, De 
 l'Allemagne. And is not this connection still stronger with the 
 original than the copy 1 with the colouring of nature than of art] 
 After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; still I think 
 there are some who will understand it, at least they would have 
 done had they beheld the countenance whose speaking harmony 
 suggested the idea; for this passage is not drawn from imagina- 
 tion but memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the earth, 
 and looking down upon the fragments, only beholds the reflection 
 multiplied! 
 
 ^ [Among the imputed plagiarisms so industriously hunted out 
 in Lord Byron's writings, this line has been, with somewhat 
 more plausibility than is frequent in such charges, included ; the 
 lyric poet Lovelace having, it seems written " The melody and 
 music of her face." Sir Thomas Brov^ne, too, in his Religio 
 Medici, says, "There is music even in beauty." The coinci- 
 dence, no doubt, is worth observing, and the task of " tracking 
 thus a favourite writer in the snow (as Dryden expresses it) of 
 others," is sometimes not unamusing; but to those who found 
 upon such resemblances a general charge of plagiarism, we may 
 apply what Sir Walter Scott says : — " It is a favourite theme of 
 laborious dulness to trace such coincidences, because they appear 
 to reduce genius of the higher order to the usual standard of hu- 
 manity, and of course to bring the author nearer to a level with 
 his critics." It is not only curious, but instructive, to trace the 
 progress of this passage to its present state of finish. Having 
 at first written — 
 
 " Mind on her lip, and music in her face," 
 he afterwards altered it to — 
 
 "The mind of music breathing in her face;" 
 
Canto T. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 83 
 
 ,The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
 And, oh ! that eye was hi itself a soul !' 
 
 Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
 Across her gently-budding breast ; 
 
 At one kind word those arms extending 
 To clasp the neck of him who bless'd, 
 His child, caressing and caress'd, 
 Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
 His purpose half within him melt : 
 Not that against her fancied weal 
 His heart, though stern, could ever feel ; 
 Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
 
 How dear this very day must tell, 
 When I forget my own distress, 
 
 In losing what 1 love so well. 
 
 To bid thee with another dwell : 
 
 Another ! and a braver man 
 
 Was never seen in battle's van. 
 
 but this not satisfying him, the next step of correction brought 
 the line to what it is at present. — Moore.] 
 
 * ["This morning, a very pretty billet from the Stael. She 
 has been pleased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in the note 
 annexed to the ' Bride.' This is to be accounted for in several 
 ways : — firstly, all women like all, or any praise ; secondly, this 
 was unexpected, because I have never courted her ; and, thirdly, 
 as Scrub says, those who have been all their lives regularly 
 praised by regular critics, like a little variety, and are glad when 
 any one goes out of his way to say a civil thing ; and, fourthly, 
 she is a very good-natured creature, which is the best reason 
 after all, and, perhaps, the only one." — Byron Diary, Dec. 7, 
 1813.] 
 
84 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 
 
 But yet the line of Carasman^ 
 Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
 
 First of the bold Tiniariot bands 
 That won and well can keep their lands. 
 Enough that he who comes to woo 
 Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou: 
 His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
 I would not have thee wed a boy. 
 And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
 And his and my united power 
 Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
 Which others tremble but to scan, 
 And teach the messenger^ what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait. 
 And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 
 
 All that thy sex hath need to know : 
 'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 
 
 The way to love, thy lord may show." 
 
 * Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal 
 landholder in Turkey ; he governs Magnesia : those who, hy a 
 kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition of service, are 
 called Timariots • they serve as spahis, according to the extent 
 of territory, and bring a certain number into the field, generally 
 cavalry. 
 
 ^ When a pasha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single mes- 
 senger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his death, 
 is strangled instead, and sometimes five or six, one after the 
 other, on the same errand, by command of the refractory patient; 
 if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bowes, kisses the 
 sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with great 
 complacency. In 1810, several of these presents were exhibited 
 in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; among others, the head of the 
 Pasha of Bagdad, a brave young man, cut off by treachery, after 
 a desperate resistance. 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 85 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 
 
 And if her eye was fill'd v/ith tears 
 That stifled feeUng dare not shed, 
 And changed her cheek from pale to red, 
 
 And red to pale, as through her ears 
 Those winged words like arrows sped. 
 
 What could such be but maiden fears ? 
 So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
 Love half regrets to kiss it dry; 
 So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
 Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! 
 
 Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
 
 Or if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 
 
 Thrice clapp'd his hands,^ and calPd his steed, 
 
 Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque,*^ 
 And mounting featly for the mead, 
 
 With Maugrabee^ and Mamaluke, 
 
 His way amid his Delis took,"* 
 To witness many an active deed 
 With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
 The Kislar only and his Moors 
 Watch well the harem's massy doors. 
 
 ' Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate 
 a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no bells. 
 
 2 " Chibouque," the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouth- 
 piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the leaf, is adorned 
 with precious stones, if in possession of the wealthier orders. 
 
 ^ " Maugrabee," Moorish mercenaries. 
 
 * " Delis," bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
 and always begin the action. 
 
86 THE BRIDE OF AEYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His head was leant upon his hand, 
 
 His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
 That swiftly glides and gently swells 
 Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
 IS or even his pasha's turban 'd band 
 
 Mix in the game of mimic slaughter. 
 Careering cleave the folded felt' 
 With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
 Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
 Nor heard their Ollahs^ wild and loud — 
 He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 
 
 No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
 One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
 Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
 Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
 To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
 But little from his aspect learn'd : 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
 Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
 
 * A twisted fold of felt is used for cimeter practice by the 
 Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a 
 single stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used for the same 
 purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated and 
 graceful. 
 
 2 " OUahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the Spanish poets 
 call them : the sound is OUah ; a cry of which the Turks, for a 
 silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during the 
 jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation 
 in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and 
 comboloios, form an amusing contrast. 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 87 
 
 But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, 
 She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
 Yet speak she must, but when essay ? 
 " How strange he thus should turn away ! 
 Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
 Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
 Thrice paced she slowly through the room. 
 
 And watch'd his eye, it still was fix'd : 
 
 She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
 The Persian atar-gul's^ perfume, 
 And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
 The pictured roof^ and marble floor : 
 The drops that through his glittering vest 
 The playful girl's appeal address'd. 
 Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
 As if that breast were marble too. 
 " What, sullen yet ? it must not be — 
 Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee \" 
 She saw in curious order set 
 
 The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
 " He loved them once ; may touch them yet. 
 
 If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
 The childish thought was hardly breathed 
 Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
 
 ' "Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. 
 
 ^ The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls of the Mussul- 
 man apartments are generally painted, in great houses, with one 
 eternal and highly coloured view of Constantinople, wherein the 
 principal feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, 
 arms, cimeters, &c. are in general, foncifully and not inelegantly 
 disposed. 
 
88 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 " This rose to calm my brother's cares 
 A message from the bulbuP bears ; 
 It says to-night he will prolong 
 For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
 And though his note is somewhat sad. 
 He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
 With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
 May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 
 
 " What ! not receive ray foolish flower ? 
 
 Nay, then I am indeed unblest : 
 On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 
 
 And knowst thou not who loves thee best ? 
 Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
 Say, is it me thou hatest or fearest ? 
 Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
 And I will kiss thee into rest, 
 Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
 E'en from my fabled nightingale. 
 I knew our sire at times was stern. 
 But this from thee had yet to learn : 
 Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
 But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
 Ah ! deem I right ? the pasha's plan — 
 This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
 Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
 If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
 
 * It has been much doubted whether the notes of this " Lover 
 of the rose" are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's remarks on the 
 subject have provoked some learned controversy as to the opinions 
 of the ancients on the subject. I dare not venture a conjecture 
 on the point, though a little inclined to the " errare mallem," &c. 
 if Mr. Fox was mistaken. 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 89 
 
 If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
 To woman's step admit her vow, 
 Without thy free consent, command. 
 The sultan should not have my hand ! 
 Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
 With thee and learn to halve my heart? 
 Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, 
 Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
 Years have not seen, time shall not see 
 The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
 E'en Azrael,^ from his deadly quiver 
 
 When flies that shaft, and fly it must. 
 That parts all else, shall doom forever 
 
 Our hearts to undivided dust !" 
 
 XII. 
 
 He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt ; 
 He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
 His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
 With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
 With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
 As the stream late conceal'd 
 
 By the fringe of its willows. 
 When it rushes reveal'd 
 
 In the light of its billows ; 
 As the bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the black cloud that bound it, 
 Flash'd the soul of that eye 
 
 Through the long lashes round it. 
 A war-horse at the trumpet sound, 
 A lion roused by heedless hound, 
 
 * " Azrael," the angel of death. 
 
90 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
 
 By graze of ill-directed knife, 
 
 Starts not to more convulsive life 
 
 Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
 
 And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
 
 " Now thou art mine, forever mine. 
 
 With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
 
 Now thou art mine ; that sacred oath. 
 
 Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
 
 Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
 
 That vow hath saved more heads than one : ' 
 
 But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
 
 Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 
 I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 
 That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 
 Within the caves of Istakar.^ 
 
 This morning clouds upon me lower'd. 
 
 Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
 
 And Giaffir almost call'd me coward! 
 
 Now I have motive to be brave ; 
 
 The son of his neglected slave, — 
 
 Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave, — 
 
 May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
 
 A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
 
 His son, indeed ! — yet thanks to thee. 
 
 Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
 
 But let our plighted, secret vow 
 
 Be only known to us as now. 
 
 I know the wretch who dares demand 
 
 From GiafRr thy reluctant hand ; 
 
 ' The treasures of the Pre-Adamite sultans. See D'Herbelot 
 article Istakar. 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 91 
 
 More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
 
 Holds not a Musselim's* control : 
 
 Was he not bred in Egripo ?^ 
 
 A viler race let Israel show! 
 
 But let that pass — to none be told 
 
 Our oath ; the rert shall time unfold. 
 
 To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
 
 I've partisans for peril's day : 
 
 Think not I am what I appear ; 
 
 I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 
 
 xiir. 
 
 " Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 
 
 My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
 This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 
 
 But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
 My love thou surely knew'st before, 
 It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
 To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 
 
 And hate the night, I know not why, 
 Save that we meet not but by day ; 
 
 With thee to live, with thee to die, 
 
 I dare not to my hope deny : 
 Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
 Like this — and this — no more than this ; 
 For. Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : 
 
 What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
 My own have nearly caught the same, 
 
 At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
 
 * " INhisselim," a governor, the next in rank after a pasha ; a 
 waywode is the third, and then come the agas. 
 
 2 " Egripo," the Negropont. According to the proverb, the 
 Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Greeks of Athens, 
 are the worst of their respective races. 
 
92 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 
 Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
 
 And lighten half thy poverty; 
 
 Do all but close thy dying eye, 
 
 For that I could not live to try ; 
 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
 
 More can I do ? or thou reqnire ? 
 
 But, Selim, thou must answer why 
 
 We need so much of mystery ? 
 
 The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
 
 But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 
 
 Yet what thou mean'st by 'arms' and 'friends,' 
 
 Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
 
 1 meant that Giaffir should have heard 
 
 The very vow I plighted thee ; 
 His wrath would not revoke my word : 
 
 But surely he would leave me free. 
 
 Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
 To be what I have ever been ? 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 
 
 What other can she seek to see 
 Than thee, companion of her bower, 
 
 The partner of her infancy ? 
 These cherish'd thoughts, with life begun, 
 
 Say, why must I no more avow ? 
 What change is wrought to make me shun 
 
 The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ? 
 To meet the gaze of strangers' eyes 
 Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
 Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
 At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
 
Canto I. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 93 
 
 No ! happier made by that decree, 
 He left me all in leaving thee. 
 Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
 To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
 This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
 Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
 I know the pasha's haughty mood 
 To thee hath never boded good ; 
 And he so often storms at nought, 
 Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
 And why I know not, but within 
 My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
 If then such secrecy be crime, 
 
 And such it feels while lurking here ; 
 Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 
 
 Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
 Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,^ 
 My father leaves the mimic war ; 
 I tremble now to meet his eye — 
 Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
 
 Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet : 
 
 And now with him I fain must prate 
 
 Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
 
 There's fearful news from Danube's banks. 
 
 Our vizier nobly thins his ranks, 
 
 For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 
 
 Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
 
 Such costly triumph to repay. 
 
 * " Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who precedes a man of 
 authority. 
 
94 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto I. 
 
 But, mark me, when the twilight dram 
 Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
 
 Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
 Then softly from the harem creep 
 Where we may wander by the deep : 
 Our garden battlements are steep ; 
 
 Nor these will rash intruder climb 
 
 To list our words, or stint our time ; 
 
 And if he doth, I want not steel 
 
 Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
 
 Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
 
 Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
 
 Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
 
 Thou knowst I hold a harem key." 
 
 " Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
 
 Did word like this " 
 
 " Delay not thou : 
 I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
 Have some, and hope of inore reward. 
 To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
 My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
 I am not, love ! what I appear." 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 The winds are high on Helle's wave. 
 
 As on that night of stormy water 
 When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
 The young, the beautiful, the brave, 
 
 The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
 Oh ! when alone along the sky 
 Her turret-torch was blazing high. 
 Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
 And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home 
 And clouds aloft and tides below. 
 With signs and sounds, forbade to go. 
 He could not see, he would not hear, 
 Or sound or sign foreboding fear; 
 His eye but saw that light of love. 
 The only star it hail'd above; 
 His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
 " Ye waves, divide not lovers long !" — 
 That tale is old, but love anew 
 ; May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 
 
96 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 II. 
 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
 Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
 And night's descending shadows hide 
 
 That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
 The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
 The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
 All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 
 
 These feet have press'd the sacred shore. 
 These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
 Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn. 
 
 To trace again those fields of yore. 
 Believing every hillock green 
 
 Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
 And that around the undoubted scene 
 
 Thine own "broad Hellespont'" still dashes, 
 Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
 Who there could gaze denying thee ! 
 
 * The wrangling about this epithet, " the broad Hellespont" 
 or the " boundless Hellespont," whether it means one or the 
 other, or what it means at all, has been beyond all possibility 
 of detail. I have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and not 
 foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, amused myself 
 with swimming across it in the mean time ; and probably may 
 again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the question as to the 
 truth of "the tale of Troy divine" still continues, much of it 
 resting upon the talismanic word "aTrcipos:" probably Homer 
 had the same notion of distance that a coquette has of time ; and 
 when he talks of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, 
 by a like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply spe- 
 cifies three weeks 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 97 
 
 IV. 
 
 The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 
 
 Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
 That moon, which shone on his high theme: 
 No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 
 
 But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
 Their flocks are grazing on the mound 
 
 Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
 That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
 Which Ammon's son ran proudly round,' 
 By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 
 
 Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 
 
 Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow! 
 Without — can only strangers breathe 
 The name of him that was beneath : 
 Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
 But thou — thy very dust is gone ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
 
 The swain, and chase the boatman's fear ; 
 
 Till then — no beacon on the cliff 
 
 May shape the course of struggling skiil'; 
 
 The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 
 
 All, one by one, have died away ; 
 
 The only lamp of this lone hour 
 
 Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower, 
 
 1 Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the aitar with 
 laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated by Caracalla in his 
 race. It is believed that the last also poisoned a friend, named 
 Festus, for the sake of new Patroclan games. I have seen the 
 sheep feeding on the tombs of iEsietes and Antiloclius: the first 
 is in the centre of the plain. 
 
98 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 
 
 And o'er her silken ottoman 
 Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran ;^ 
 Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
 (How could she thus that gem forget?) 
 Her mother's sainted amulet,^ 
 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
 Could smooth this life, and win the next; 
 And by her comboloio^ lies 
 A Koran of illumined dyes; 
 And many a bright emblazon 'd rhyme 
 By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
 And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
 Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
 
 * When nibbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, wliich 
 is slight but jiot disagreeable. [On discovering that, in some 
 of the early copies, the all-important monosyllable " not" had 
 been omitted, Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Murray, — " There is a 
 diabolical mistake which must be corrected ; it is the omission 
 or ' 710^ before disagreeable, in the note on the amber rosary. 
 This is really horrible, and nearly as bad as the stumble of mine 
 at the threshold — I mean the misnomer of Bride. Pray do not 
 let a copy go without the '•notP it is nonsense, and worse than 
 nonsense. I wish the printer was saddled with a vampire."] 
 
 2 The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or enclosed in gol.l 
 boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn round the neck, 
 wrist, or arm, is still universal in the East, The Koorsee 
 (throne) verse in the second cap. of the Koran describes the 
 attributes of the Most High, and is engraved in this manner, 
 and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed and sublime of all 
 sentences. 
 
 8 "Comboloio" — a Turkish rosary. The MSS., particularly 
 those of the Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The 
 Greek females are kept in utter ignorance ; but many of the 
 Turkish girls are highly accomplished, though not actually 
 (jualified for a Christian coterie. Perhaps some of our own 
 '■'■ blues" might not be the worse for bleaching. 
 
Canto IT. THE BRTDE OF ABYDOS. 99 
 
 And round her lamp of fretted gold 
 Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 
 The richest work of Iran's loom, 
 And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
 All that can eye or sense delight 
 
 Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 
 
 But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
 She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
 
 Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
 To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
 
 As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
 With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
 
 And starting oft, as through the glade 
 
 The gust its hollow moanings made, 
 Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
 More free her timid bosom beat. 
 
 The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
 And though her terror urged retreat. 
 
 How could she quit her Selim's side ? 
 
 How teach her tender lips to chide ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 
 By nature, but enlarged by art. 
 
 Where oft her lute she wont to tune. 
 And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
 
 And oft in youthful revery 
 
 She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
 
100 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her Prophet had disdam'd to show ; 
 But SeUm's mansion was secure, 
 Nor, deera'd she, could he long endure 
 His bower in other worlds of bliss 
 Without her, most beloved in this ! 
 Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell ? 
 What houri soothe him half so well ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Since last she visited the spot 
 
 Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 
 
 It might be only that the night 
 
 Disguised things seen by better light : 
 
 That brazen lamp but dimly threw 
 
 A ray of no celestial hue ; 
 
 But in a nook within the cell 
 
 Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
 
 There arms were piled, not such as wield 
 
 The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
 
 But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 
 
 And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
 
 Ah ! how without can blood be spilt? 
 
 A cup too on the board was set 
 
 That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
 
 What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 
 
 Her Selim— " Oh ! can this be he ?" 
 
 IX. 
 
 His robe of pride was thrown aside. 
 His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
 
 But in its stead a shawl of red, 
 
 Wreath'd lightly round, his temples wore : 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 101 
 
 That dagger on whose hilt the gem 
 
 Were wortliy of a diadem, 
 
 No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
 
 Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
 
 And from his belt a sabre swmig, 
 
 And from his shoulder loosely hung 
 
 The cloak of white, the thin capote 
 
 That decks the wandering Candiote ; 
 
 Beneath — his golden plated vest 
 
 Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
 
 The greaves below his knee that wound 
 
 With silvery scales, were sheathed and bound. 
 
 But were it not that high command 
 
 Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
 
 All that a careless eye could see 
 
 In him was some young Galiongee.^ 
 
 " I said I was not what I seem'd ; 
 
 And now thou seest my words were true 
 I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 
 
 If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
 My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
 I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
 But had not thine own lips declared 
 How much of that young heart I shared, 
 
 1 " Galiongee" — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish sailor; 
 the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. Their dress is 
 picturesque; and I have seen the Capitan Pasha more than once 
 wearing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are generally 
 naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind 
 with silver, are those of an Arnaut robber, who was my host (he 
 
102 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 I could not, must not yet have shown 
 The darker secret of my own, 
 In this I speak not now of love ; 
 That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
 But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
 Zuleika ! I am not thy brother !" 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 
 
 God ! am I left alone on earth 
 To mourn — I dare not curse — the da)'^^ 
 
 That saw my solitary birth ? 
 Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 
 
 My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
 But know me all I was before. 
 
 Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
 Thou ledst me here perchance to kill ; 
 
 If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
 My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 
 
 Far better with the dead to be 
 
 Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
 Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
 Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
 And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child. 
 For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
 If not thy sister — would'st thou save 
 JNIy life, oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 
 
 had quitted the profession) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the 
 Morea ; they were plated in scales one over the other, like the 
 back of an armadillo. 
 
 ^ ["To curse— if I could curse— the day."— MS.] 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 103 
 
 " My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine : 
 
 But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
 Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
 I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 
 
 And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
 So may the Koran' verse display 'd 
 Upon its steel, direct my blade, 
 In danger's hour to guard us both. 
 As I preserve that awful oath ! 
 The name in which thy heart hath prided 
 
 Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know. 
 That tie is widen 'd, not divided, 
 
 Although thy sire's my deadhest foe. 
 My father was to Giaffir all 
 
 That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
 That brother wrought a brother's fall. 
 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
 That yet a like return may meet. 
 He rear'd me, not with tender help, 
 
 But like the nephew of a Cain f 
 He watch'd me like a lion's whelp. 
 
 * The characters on all Turkish cimeters contain sometimes 
 the name of the place of their manufacture, but more generally a 
 text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst those in my 
 possession is one with a blade of singular construction ; it is very 
 broad, and the edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple 
 of water, or the wavering of flame. I ask'd the Armenian who 
 sold it, what possible use such a figure could add : he said, in 
 Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussulmans had an idea 
 that those of this form gave a severer wound ; and liked it because 
 it was "piu feroce." I did not much admire the reason, but 
 bought it for its peculiarity. 
 
 ^ It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or per- 
 
104 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 
 
 My father's blood m every vein 
 Is boihng ; but for thy dear sake 
 No present vengeance will I take ; 
 
 Though here I must no more remain. 
 But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
 How Giatfir wrought this deed of fear. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " How first their strife to rancour grew, 
 
 If love or envy made them foes, 
 It matters little if I knew ; 
 In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
 
 And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
 In war, Abdallah's arm was strong, 
 Remember'd yet in Bosniac song. 
 And Paswan's' rebel hordes attest 
 How little love they bore such guest: 
 
 sonage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Cain, is equally 
 the privilege of Mussulman and Jew : indeed, the former profess 
 to be much better acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of 
 the patriarchs, than is warranted by our own sacred writ ; and not 
 content with Adam, they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. 
 Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet 
 inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian 
 name of Potiphar's wife ; and her amour with Joseph constitutes 
 one of the finest poems in their language. It is, therefore, no 
 violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, into the 
 mouth of a Moslem. — [Some doubt having been expressed by 
 Mr. Murray, as to the propriety of putting the name of Cain into 
 the mouth of a Mussulman, Lord Byron sent him the preceding 
 note — " for the benefit of the ignorant." " I don't care one lump 
 of sugar," he says, " for my poetry ; but for my costume, and 
 my correctness on those points, I will combat lustily."] 
 
 * Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin ; who, for the last years 
 of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at defiance. 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. lOL 
 
 His death is all I need relate, 
 The stem effect of Giaffir's hate ; 
 And how my birth disclosed to me 
 Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " When Paswan, after years of strife, 
 At last for power, but first for life, 
 In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
 Our pashas rallied round the state ; 
 Nor last nor least in high command. 
 Each brother led a separate band ; 
 They gave their horse-tails^ to the wind, 
 
 And mustering in Sophia's plain. 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 
 
 To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
 What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 
 
 By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
 With venom subtle as his soul, 
 
 Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath. 
 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
 But little deem'd a brother's wrath 
 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 He drank one draught,^ nor needed more ! 
 
 * "Horse-tail," the standard of a pasha. 
 
 2 GiafRr, Pasha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure 
 which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, in the manner 
 described in the text. Ali Pasha, while I was in the country, 
 married the daughter of his victim, some years after the event had 
 taken place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was 
 mixed in the cup of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet 
 by the bath keeper, after dressing. 
 
106 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
 Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
 In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 
 
 Abdallah's pashalic was gain'd : — 
 Thou know'st not what in our divan 
 Can wealth procure for worse than man — 
 
 Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
 By him a brother's murder stain'd ; 
 'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
 His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
 Would'st question whence ? Survey the waste, 
 And ask the squalid peasant how 
 His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
 Why me the stern usurper spared. 
 Why thus with me his palace shared, 
 I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
 And little fear from infant's force ; 
 Besides, adoption as a son 
 By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
 Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
 Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 
 He cannot curb his haughty mood. 
 Nor I forgive a father's blood. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "Within thy father's house are foes; 
 
 Not all who break his bread are true 
 To these should I my birth disclose. 
 
 His days, his very hours were few : 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 107 
 
 They only want a heart to lead, 
 A hand to point them to the deed. 
 But Haroun only knows, or knew 
 
 This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
 He in Abdallah's palace grew, 
 
 And held that post in his serai 
 
 Which holds he here — he saw him die : 
 But what could single slavery do ? 
 Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
 Or save his son from such a fate ? 
 He chose the last, and when elate 
 
 With foes subdued, or friends betray 'd, 
 Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate. 
 He led me helpless to his gate, 
 
 And not in vain it seems essay 'd 
 
 To save the life for which he pray'd. 
 The knowledge of my birth secured 
 
 From all and each, but most from me ; 
 Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. 
 
 Removed he too from Roumelie 
 To this our Asiatic side, 
 Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 
 
 With none but Haroun, who retains 
 Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 
 
 A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
 From which the captive gladly steals, 
 And this and more to me reveals : 
 Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
 Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 
 But harsher still my tale must be : 
 
108 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 Howe'er ray tongue thy softness wounds, 
 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
 
 I saw thee start this garb to see, 
 Yet it is one I oft have worn, 
 
 And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
 To whom thy plighted vow is sworn. 
 
 Is leader of those pirate hordes. 
 
 Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
 To hear whose desolating tale 
 Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
 Those arms thou seest my band have brought, 
 The hands that wield are not remote ; 
 This cup too for the rugged knaves 
 
 Is fill'd — once quaff'd they ne'er repine 
 Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 
 
 They're only infidels in wine. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 
 
 And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
 
 And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 
 
 Denied the courser and the spear — 
 
 Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft !— 
 
 In full divan the despot scoff 'd. 
 
 As if tny weak, unwilling hand 
 
 Refused the bridle or the brand : 
 
 He ever went to war alone, 
 
 And pent me here untried — unknown ; 
 
 To Haroun's care with women left, 
 
 By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 
 
 While thou — whose softness long endear'd. 
 
 Though it unmann'd me, still hath cheer'd — 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 109 
 
 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
 Awaitedst there the field's event. 
 Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 
 
 Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
 His captive, though with dread, resigning, 
 
 My thraldom for a season broke, 
 On promise to return before 
 The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
 'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
 My almost drunkenness of heart. 
 When first this liberated eye 
 Survey'd earth, ocean, sun, and sky, 
 As if my spirit pierced them through, 
 And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
 One word alone can paint to thee 
 That more than feeling — I was free ! 
 Even for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
 The world — nay, heaven itself was mine ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " The shallop of a trusty Moor 
 Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
 I long'd to see the isles that gem 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 I sought by turns, and saw them all ;^ 
 
 But when and where I join'd the crew. 
 With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall. 
 When all that we design to do 
 Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
 To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 
 
 * The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined to 
 the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 
 
no THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 " 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
 But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
 And every creed, and every race, 
 With them hath found — may find a place ; 
 But open speech, and ready hand, 
 Obedience to their chief's command ; 
 A soul for every enterprise, 
 That never sees with Terror's eyes ; 
 Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
 And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
 Have made them fitting instruments 
 For more than even my own intents. 
 And some — and I have studied all— 
 
 Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank. 
 But chielly to my council call 
 
 The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
 And some to higher thoughts aspire. 
 
 The last of Lambro's* patriots there 
 
 Anticipated freedom share ; 
 And oft around the cavern fire 
 On visionary schemes debate. 
 To snatch the rayahs^ from their fate. 
 So let them ease their hearts with prate 
 Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
 I have a love for freedom too. 
 
 1 Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts, in 1789-90, 
 for the independence of his country. Abandoned by the Russians, 
 he became a pirate, and the Archipelago was the scene of his en- 
 terprises. He is said to be still alive at Petersburg. He and 
 Riga are the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 
 
 ^ "Rayahs," — all who pay the capitation tax, called the 
 " H?ratch." 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Ill 
 
 Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch^ roam, 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's home \^ 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
 Are more than cities and serais to me : 
 Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
 Across the desert, or before the gale, 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! 
 But be the star that guidest the wanderer, thou W 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; c 
 The dove of peace and promise to mine ark !^ \ 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, ) 
 Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! ^ 
 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, ) 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray !•* ) 
 
 * The first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussul- 
 mans profess much acquaintance. 
 
 ^ The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans, 
 will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern travels. That 
 it possesses a charm peculiar to itself, cannot be denied. A j'^oung- 
 French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found 
 himself alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation ap- 
 proaching to rapture which was indescribable. 
 
 ^ [The longest, as well as most splendid, of those passages, 
 with which the perusal of his own strains, during revision, in- 
 spired him, was that rich flow of eloquent feeling which follows 
 the couplet, — " Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark," &c. 
 — astrainof poetry, which, for energy and tenderness of thought, 
 for music of versification, and selectness of diction, has, through- 
 out the greater portion of it, but few rivals in either ancient or 
 modern song. — Moore.] 
 
 * [Originally written thus — 
 
 "And tints to-morrow with ^ „ . ,> rav." 
 ( a tancied ^ •' 
 
 The following note being annexed : — " Mr. Murray, choose which 
 of the two epithets, ' fancied' or ' airy' may be best ; or if neither 
 
112 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto IT. 
 
 Blest — as the muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; 
 
 Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
 
 That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
 
 Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, 
 
 Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
 
 For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
 
 Blooming as Aden^ in its earliest hour. 
 
 A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command! 
 
 Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 
 
 The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
 
 The harem's languid years of listless ease 
 
 Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these : 
 
 Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
 
 Unnumber'd perils, — but one only love ! 
 
 Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
 
 Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
 
 How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill. 
 
 Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
 
 will do, tell me, and I will dream another." In a subsequent 
 letter, he says : — " Instead of — 
 
 " And tints to-morrow with a fancied ra)% 
 Print— 
 
 " And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ; 
 Or— 
 
 " And ^ J'- ^ > the hope of morning with its ray ; 
 
 Or— 
 
 " And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray. 
 
 I wish you would ask Mr. Gifford which of them is best; or, 
 rather, not worst.'''''\ 
 
 ^ "Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman 
 paradise. 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 113 
 
 Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown; 
 
 To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
 
 To soothe each sorrow, share iu each delight. 
 
 Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 
 
 Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide ; 
 
 Friends to each other, foes to aught beside :^ 
 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
 
 By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
 
 Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
 
 I like the rest must use my skill or strength, 
 
 But ask no land beyond my sabre's length: 
 
 Power sways but by division — her resource 
 
 The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 
 
 Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 
 
 When cities cage us in a social home : 
 
 There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 
 
 Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
 
 And woman, more than man, when death or woe, 
 
 Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low, 
 
 Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 
 
 Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika's name ! 
 
 ' [" You wanted some reflections ; and I send you, per Selini, 
 eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not an ethical, 
 tendency. One more revise — positively the last, if decently done 
 —at any rate, the ^penultimate. Mr. Canning's approbation, I 
 need not say, makes me proud.* To make you some amends 
 for eternally pestering you with alterations, I send you Cobbett, 
 — to confirm your orthodoxy." — Lord B. to Mr. Murray.^ 
 
 * [Mr. Canning's note was as follows : — "I received the books, and among 
 them, the ' Bride of Abydos.' It is very, very beautiful. Lord Byron (when 
 1 met him, one day, at a dinner at Mr. Ward's) was so kind as to promise to 
 give me a copy of it. I mention this, not to save my purchase, but because I 
 should be really flattered by the present.] 
 
114 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
 No more remains to win, and much to fear ; 
 Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
 By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. 
 That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 
 Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 
 No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest. 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath 
 
 charms ; 
 Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 
 Ay, let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
 So that those arms cling closer round my neck ! 
 The deepest murmur of this lip shall be,^ 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
 The war of elements no fears impart 
 To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 
 There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 
 Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 
 But hence, ye thoughts that rise in horror's 
 
 shape ! 
 This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
 Few words remain of mine my tale to close ; 
 Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
 Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 
 And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 
 
 xxr. 
 
 " His head and faith from doubt and death 
 Return'd in time my guard to save ; 
 
 * ["Then if my lip once murmurs, it must be." — MS.] 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. li; 
 
 Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
 From isle to isle I roved the while : 
 And since, though parted from my band, 
 Too seldom now I leave the land, 
 No deed they've done, nor deed shall do. 
 Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
 But now too long Fve held thine ear ; 
 Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
 We leave behind but hate and fear. 
 To-morrow Osman with his train 
 Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
 And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey 
 
 Perchance, his life who gave thee thine, 
 With me this hour away — away ! 
 
 But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
 Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
 Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
 Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
 But be that peril on my head!" 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Zuleika, mute and motionless. 
 Stood like that statue of distress. 
 When, her last hope forever gone, 
 The mother harden'd into stone ; 
 All in the maid that eye could see 
 Was but a younger Niobe. 
 But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
 Essay'd to speak, or look reply. 
 Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
 Far flash 'd on high a blazing torch ! 
 
116 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 Another — and another — and another — 
 " Oh! — fly — no more — yet now my more than bro- 
 ther V 
 Far, wide, through every thicket spread. 
 The fearful hghts are gleaming red ; 
 Nor these alone — for each right hand 
 Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
 They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 With searching flambean, shining steel ; 
 And last of all, his sabre waving, 
 Stern Giaffir in his fury raving ; 
 And now almost they touch the cave — 
 Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave } 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Dauntless he stood — " 'Tis come — soon past — • 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 
 
 But yet my band not far from shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 
 
 No matter — yet one eflbrt more." 
 Forth to the cavern mouth he slept ; 
 
 His pistol's echo rang on high, 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept 
 
 Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
 " They hear me not, or if they ply 
 Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
 Then forth my father's scimitar. 
 Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
 Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 
 
 Yet stay within — here linger safe, 
 
 At thee his rage will only chafe. 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 117 
 
 Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
 Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
 Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
 If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
 No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
 No — though again he call me coward ! 
 Bvit tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
 No — as each crest save his may feel !" 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 
 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 
 A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
 Another falls — but round him close 
 A swarming circle of his foes ; 
 From right to left his path he cleft, 
 
 And almost met the meeting wave : 
 His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
 His comrades strain with desperate strength- 
 
 Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
 
 His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
 His band are plunging in the bay, 
 Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
 Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
 They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
 His heart's best blood is on the water. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel. 
 Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 
 
118 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 
 
 To where the strand and billows met ; 
 
 There as his last step left the land, 
 
 And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 
 For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took. 
 
 Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
 How late will lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to the dashing spray ; 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay. 
 When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
 " So may the foes of Giaffir fall \" 
 Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
 Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
 'Tis thine — Abdallah's murderer ! 
 The father slowly rued thy hate. 
 The son hath found a quicker fate : 
 Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
 The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
 If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
 The rushing billows choked the tone ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 JMorn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 
 
 Few trophies of the fight are there : 
 The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
 Are silent ; but some signs of fray 
 
 That strand of strife may bear, 
 And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
 Steps stamp 'd : and dash'd into the sand 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 119 
 
 The print of many a struggling hand 
 May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
 A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
 And tangled on the weeds that heap 
 The beach, where shelving to the deep, 
 
 There lies a white capote ! 
 'Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
 The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 
 
 But where is he who wore ? 
 Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
 Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
 Their burden round Sigaeum's steep, 
 
 And cast on Lemnos' shore ; 
 The sea-birds shriek above the prey. 
 O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
 As shaken on his restless pillow. 
 His head heaves with the heaving billow : 
 That hand, whose motion is not life. 
 Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
 Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
 Then levell'd with the wave — ^ 
 What recks it, though that corse shall lie 
 
 Within a living grave ? 
 The bird that tears that prostrate form 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see him die. 
 
 1 [" While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron 
 saw the body of a man, who had been executed by being cast into 
 the sea, floating on the stream to and fro with the trembling of 
 the water, which gave to its arms the effect of scaring away se- 
 veral sea-fowl that were hovering to devour. This incident has 
 been strikingly depicted."— ~Galt.] 
 
120 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone,* 
 
 That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
 Yea, closed before his own ! 
 
 By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
 
 And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : 
 
 Zuleika, last of Giaffir's race, 
 
 Thy destined lord is come too late : 
 
 He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 
 Can he not hear 
 
 The loud wul-wulleh^ warn his distant ear? 
 Thy handmaids weeping at the gate 
 The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. 
 The silent slaves with folded arms that wait. 
 
 Sighs in the hall and shrieks upon the gale. 
 Tell him thy tale ! 
 
 Thou didst not view thy Sehm fall ! 
 
 That fearful moment when he left the cave 
 Thy heart grew chill : 
 
 He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all. 
 
 And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
 Sufficed to kill ; 
 
 Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 
 Peace to thy broken heart and virgin grave ! 
 
 * A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only. 
 
 '^ The death-song of the Turkish women. The " silent slaves" 
 are the men, v^fhose notions of decorum forbid complaint in 
 public. 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 121 
 
 Ah ! happy ! but of Ufe to lose the worst ! 
 
 That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy 
 first ! 
 
 Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
 "■>0f absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
 
 And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! 
 
 The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
 
 Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night. 
 
 That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 
 
 That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! 
 
 Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
 
 Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
 
 Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
 Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread : 
 By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
 
 Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
 
 Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
 
 She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
 Thy daughter's dead ! 
 Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
 The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
 
 What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast 
 shed ! 
 
 Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair : 
 
 '•Where is my child?" — an Echo answers — 
 " Where ?"i 
 
 * "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, 'The friends of 
 my youth, where are they V and an echo answered, ' ^Yhere are 
 they]'" — From an Arabic MS. The above quotation (from 
 which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to 
 every reader : it is given in the first annotation, p. 67, of "The 
 Pleasures of Memory ;" a poem so well known as to render a re- 
 ference almost superfluous ; but to whose pages all will be de 
 lighted to recur. 
 
1-22 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 
 That shine beneath, while dark above 
 The sad but living cypress glooms, 
 
 And withers not, though branch and leaf 
 Are stamp'd with an eternal grief. 
 
 Like early unrequited love. 
 One spot exists which ever blooms, 
 
 Even in that deadly grove — 
 A single rose is shedding there 
 
 Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
 It looks as planted by Despair — 
 
 So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
 Might whirl the leaves on high ; 
 
 And yet, though storms and blight assail. 
 And hands more rude than wintry sky 
 
 May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
 
 To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
 The stalk some spirit gently rears. 
 And waters with celestial tears ; 
 
 For well may maids of Helle deem 
 That this can be no earthly flower, 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour. 
 And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
 Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower 
 
 Nor woos the summer beam : 
 To it the livelong night there sings 
 
 A bird unseen — but not remote ; 
 Invisible his airy wings. 
 Bat soft as harp that houri strings 
 
 His long entrancing note ! 
 It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
Canto IT. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 123 
 
 Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
 For they who Usten cannot leave 
 The spot, but linger there and grieve, 
 
 As if they loved in vain ! 
 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
 'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
 They scarce can bear the morn to break 
 
 That melancholy spell. 
 And longer yet would weep and wake, 
 
 He sings so wild and well ! 
 But when the day-blush bursts from high 
 
 Expires that magic melody. 
 And some have been who could believe, 
 (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
 
 Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
 That note so piercing and profound 
 Will shape and syllable^ its sound 
 
 Into Zuleika's name.^ 
 
 * " And airy tongues that syllable men's names." — Milton. 
 
 For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of 
 birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost 
 story, the belief of the Dutchess of Kendall, that George I. 
 flew into her window in the shape of a raven, (see Orford's 
 Reminiscences,) and many other instances, bring this super- 
 stition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a 
 Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the 
 shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the 
 cathedral with cages full of the kind; and as she was rich, 
 and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was 
 made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's 
 Letters. 
 
 '^ [The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, is all 
 purity and loveliness. Never was a faultless character more 
 delicately or more justly delineated. Her piety, her intelli- 
 gence, and her strict sense of duty, and her undeviating love 
 of truth, appear to have been originally blended in her mind, 
 
124 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Canto II. 
 
 'Tis from her cypress summit heard, 
 
 That melts in air the Hquid word : 
 
 'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
 
 That white rose takes its tender birth. 
 
 There late was laid a marble stone ; 
 
 Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! 
 
 It was no mortal arm that bore 
 
 That deep fix'd pillar to the shore ; 
 
 For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
 
 Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell ; 
 
 Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
 
 Denied his bones a holier grave : 
 
 And there by night, reclined, 'tis said. 
 
 Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 'Tis nam'd the " Pirate-phantom's pillow !" 
 Where first it lay that mourning flower 
 Hath flourish'd ; flourisheth this hour, 
 
 rather than inculcated by education. She is always natural, 
 always attractive, always affectionate ; and it must be admitted 
 that her affections are not unworthily bestowed. Selim, while 
 an orphan and dependant, is never degraded by calamity; when 
 better hopes are presented to him, his buoyant spirit rises with 
 his expectations: he is enterprising, with no more rashness 
 than becomes his youth ; and when disappointed in the success 
 of a well-concerted project, he meets, with intrepidity, the fate 
 to which he is exposed through his own generous forbearance. 
 To us, " The Bride of Abydos" appears to be, in every respect, 
 superior to "The Giaour," though, in point of diction, it has 
 been, perhaps, less warmly admired. We will not argue this 
 point, but will simply observe, that what is read with ease is 
 generally read with rapidity ; and that many beauties of style 
 which escape observation in a simple and connected narrative, 
 would be forced on the reader's attention by abrupt and perplex- 
 ing transitions. It is only when a traveller is obliged to stop on 
 his journey, that he is disposed to examine and admire the pros- 
 pect. — George Ellis.] 
 
Canto II. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 125 
 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure, and pale ; 
 
 As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale !' 
 
 ' ["The 'Bride,' such as it is, is my first entire composition 
 of any length, (except the Satire, and be d — d to it,) for the 
 ' Giaour' is but a string of passages, and ' Childe Harold' is, 
 and I rather think always will be, unconcluded. It was pub- 
 lished on Thursday, the 2d of December; but how it is liked, I 
 know not. Whether it succeeds or not, is no fault of the public, 
 against whom I can have no complaint. But I am much more 
 indebted to the tale than I can ever be to the most important 
 reader ; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination ; 
 from selfish regrets to vivid recollections ; and recalled me to a 
 country replete with the brightest and darkest, but always most 
 lively colours of my memory." — Byron Diary, Dec. 5, 1813.] 
 
THE CORSAIR 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 -"I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 
 
 Tasso, Gcrusalemme Ltberata, canto x. 
 
["The Corsair" was begun on the 18th, and finished on the 
 31st of December, 1813 ; a rapidity of composition which, tak- 
 ing into consideration the extraordinary beauty of the poem, is, 
 perhaps, unparalleled in the literary history of the country. 
 Lord Byron states it to have been written " con amore, and very 
 much from existence.'''' In the original MS. the chief female 
 character was called Francesca, in whose person the author 
 meant to delineate one of his acquaintance ; but, while the work 
 was at press, he changed the name to Medora.'] 
 
TO 
 
 THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 
 
 My dear Moore, 
 
 I DEDICATE to you the last production with which 
 I shall trespass on public patience, and your indul- 
 gence, for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious 
 to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of 
 adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by un- 
 shaken public principle, and the most undoubted and 
 various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the 
 firmest of her patriots; while you stand alone the first 
 of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats 
 and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose only regret, 
 since our first acquaintance, has been the years he 
 has lost before it commenced, to add the humble but 
 sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more 
 than one nation. It will at least prove to you, that 
 I have neither forgotten the gratification derived 
 from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its 
 renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
 you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. 
 It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you 
 are engaged in the composition of a poem whose 
 scene will be laid in the East ; none can do those 
 scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own 
 
ICO DEDICATION. 
 
 country/ the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, 
 the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there 
 be found ; and CoUins, when he denominated his 
 Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, 
 at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination 
 will create a warmer sun, and less cloudy sky ; bnt 
 wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part of your 
 national claim of oriental descent, to which you have 
 already thus far proved your title more clearly than 
 the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 
 
 May I add a few words on a subject on which all 
 men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? — 
 self. I have written much, and published more than 
 enough to demand a longer silence than I now medi- 
 tate ; but, for some years to come, it is my intention 
 to tempt no further the award of "gods, men, nor 
 columns." In the present composition I have at- 
 tempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best 
 
 * [This political allusion having been objected to by a friend, 
 Lord Byron sent a second dedication to Mr. Moore, with a re- 
 quest that he would "take his choice." It ran as follows : — 
 
 "My dear Moore, January 7th, 1814. 
 
 "I had written to you a long letter of dedication, which I 
 suppress, because, though it contained something relating to you, 
 which every one had been glad to hear, yet there was too much 
 about politics, and poesy, and all things whatsoever, ending with 
 that topic on whicli most men are fluent, and none very amusing, 
 — onc^s self. It might have been rewritten; but to what pur- 
 posed My praise could add nothing to your well-earned and 
 firmly established fame; and with my most hearty admiration of 
 your talents, and delight in your conversation, you are already 
 acquainted. In availing myself of your friendly permission to 
 inscribe this poem to you, I can only wisli the offering were as 
 worthy your acceptance, as your regard is dear to 
 
 " Yours, most affectionately and faithfully, 
 
 "Byron." 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 131 
 
 adapted measure to our language, the good old and 
 now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser 
 is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative ; 
 though, I confess, it is the measure most after my own 
 heart ; Scott alone,' of the present generation, has 
 hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility 
 of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the least 
 victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank 
 verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the 
 beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from 
 the rough and barren rock on which they are kin- 
 dled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular 
 measure, certainly; but as I did not deviate into the 
 other from a wish to flatter what is called public opi- 
 nion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take 
 my chance once more with that versification, in which 
 I have hitherto published nothing but compositions 
 whose former circulation is part of my present, and 
 will be of my future regret. 
 
 With regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
 should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
 more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
 have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
 responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
 been personal. Be it so — if I liave deviated into the 
 gloomy vanity of "drawing from self," the pictures are 
 probably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, 
 those who know me are undeceived, and those who 
 do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have 
 no particular desire that any but my acquaintance 
 should think the author better than the beings of his 
 imagining ; but I cannot help a little surprise, and 
 
 * [After the words "Scott alone," Lord Byron had inserted, 
 in a parentliesis — " He will excuse the ' Mr.'' — we do not say 
 Mr. Cffisar."] 
 
132 DEDICATION. 
 
 perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in 
 the present instance, when I see several bards (far 
 more deserving, I allow) in very reputable plight, and 
 quite exempted from all participation in the faults of 
 those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with 
 little more morality than " The Giaour," and perhaps 
 — but no — I must admit Childe Harold to be a very 
 repulsive personage ; and as to his identity, those who 
 like it must give him whatever "alias" they please.' 
 If, however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
 pression, it might be of some service to me, that the 
 man who is alike the delight of his readers and his 
 friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, 
 permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 
 Most truly. 
 
 And affectionately, 
 
 His obedient servant, 
 
 Byrox. 
 
 January 2, 1814. 
 
 * [It is difficult to say whether we are to receive this passage 
 as an admission or a denial of the opinion to which it refers ; but 
 Lord Byron certainly did the public injustice, if he supposed it 
 imputed to him the criminal actions with which many of his he- 
 roes were stained. Men no more expected to meet in Lord By- 
 ron the Corsair, who " knew himself a villain," than they looked 
 for the hypocrisy of Kehama on the shores of the Derwent Wa- 
 ter, or the profligacy of Marmion on the banks of the Tweed. — 
 Sir Walter Scott.] 
 
^rt^"' 
 
 \ I 
 
THE CORSAIR.^ 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 ' Nessun maggior dolore, 
 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria, " 
 
 Dante. 
 
 " O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free. 
 Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
 Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
 These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
 Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
 
 * The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences ; 
 but the whole of the JEge?Ln isles are within a few hours' sail of 
 the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the 
 wind as I have often found it. 
 
134 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 Oh, who can tell ? not thon, luxurious slave ! 
 Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
 Whom slumber soothes not — pleasures cannot 
 
 please — 
 Oh, who can tell, save he whose lieart hath tried, 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
 The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 
 That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
 And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
 That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
 And where the feebler faint— can only feel — 
 Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
 Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
 No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
 Save that it seems even duller than repose ; 
 Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
 When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
 Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay. 
 Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
 Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
 Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
 Wliile gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
 Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
 His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
 And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave : 
 Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed. 
 When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
 For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
 In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
 And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
 Wlien those who win at length divide the prey. 
 And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow. 
 How had tlie brave who fell exulted nowV 
 
Canto I. T H E C O R S A I R. 135 
 
 II. 
 
 Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle 
 
 Around the kindUng watch-fire rang the while : 
 
 Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 
 
 And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 
 
 In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
 
 They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand : 
 
 Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 
 
 And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
 
 Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
 
 While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
 
 For the wild bird the busy springes set. 
 
 Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
 
 Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
 
 With all the thirsting eye of enterprise ; 
 
 Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil. 
 
 And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil ; 
 
 No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 
 
 Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
 
 But who that chief ? his name on every shore 
 
 Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 
 
 With these he mingles not but to command ; 
 
 Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
 
 Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess. 
 
 But they forgive his silence for success. 
 
 Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill. 
 
 That goblet passes him untasted still — 
 
 And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
 
 Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 
 
 Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest 
 
 roots, 
 And scarce the summer luxury of fruits. 
 His short repast in humbleness supply 
 With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
 
136 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
 His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 
 " Steer to that shore !" — they sail. " Do this !" 'tis 
 
 done : 
 " Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won. 
 Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
 And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
 To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
 Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 
 III. 
 
 " A sail ! — sail !" — a promised prize to hope ! 
 
 Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope? 
 
 No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
 
 The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
 
 Yes — she is ours — a home returning bark — 
 
 Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
 
 Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
 
 Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
 
 How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
 
 Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
 
 She walks the waters like a thing of life. 
 
 And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
 
 Who would not brave the battle fire — the wreck — 
 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
 The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings. 
 And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
 Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR, 137 
 
 'Tis mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, 
 Till grates iier keel upon the shallow sand. 
 Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 
 When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
 The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
 And the heart's promise of festivity ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The tidings spread, and gathering grows the 
 
 crowd : 
 The hum of voices, and the laughter loud. 
 And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
 Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear 
 
 word : 
 " Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
 But shall we see them ? will their accents bless ? 
 From where the battle roars — the billows chafe — 
 They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
 Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
 And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Where is our chief .^ for him we bear report — 
 And doubt that joy — which hails our coming- 
 short ; 
 Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief; 
 But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
 Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return. 
 And all shall hear what each may wish to learn.' 
 Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
 To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay. 
 By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
 And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
 
138 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 
 
 Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
 
 From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder cave, 
 
 What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
 
 In pensive posture leaning on the brand. 
 
 Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 
 
 " 'Tis he- -'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 
 
 On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 
 
 The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
 
 His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 
 
 We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his 
 
 mood, 
 When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
 He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
 These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
 He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
 "These letters, chief, are from the Greek — the 
 
 spy, 
 W^ho still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
 Whate'er his tidings, we can well report. 
 Much that" — " Peace, peace !" — he cuts their prating 
 
 short. 
 Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
 Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
 They watch his glance with many a stealing look. 
 To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
 But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside. 
 Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride. 
 He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
 Where is Gonsalvo ?" 
 
 " In the anchor'd bark." 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR. 139 
 
 " There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
 Back to yom' duty — for my course prepare : 
 Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
 
 "To night, Lord Conrad?" 
 
 " Ay ! at set of sun : 
 The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
 My corselet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone 
 Sling on thy bugle — see that, free from rust, 
 My carbine lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
 Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
 And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
 This let the armourer with speed dispose ; 
 Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
 Mark that the signal gun be duly fired, 
 To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
 Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
 Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides ; 
 And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
 That man of loneliness and mystery. 
 Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
 Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew. 
 And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
 Still sways their souls with that commanding 
 
 art 
 That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
 What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
 Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
 What should it be, that thus their faith can bind . 
 The power of thought — the magic of the mind ! 
 
110 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
 That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
 Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown. 
 Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
 Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
 The many still must labour for the one ! 
 'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
 Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
 Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
 How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
 
 Demons in act, but gods at least in face, 
 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 
 
 Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 
 
 Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
 
 No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
 
 Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ;* 
 
 * [In the features of Conrad, those who have looked upon Lord 
 Byron will recognise some likeness ; and the ascetic regimen 
 which the noble poet himself observed, was no less marked in 
 the preceding description of Conrad's fare. To what are we to 
 ascribe the singular peculiarity which induced an author of such 
 talent, and so well skilled in tracing the darker impressions which 
 guilt and remorse leave on the human character, so frequently to 
 affix features peculiar to himself to the robbers and corsairs which 
 he sketched with a pencil as forcible as that of Salvator"? More 
 than one answer may be returned to this question ; nor do we 
 pretend to say which is best warranted by the facts. The prac- 
 tice may arise from a temperament which radical and constitu- 
 tional melancholy had, as in the case of Hamlet, predisposed to 
 identify its owner with scenes of that deep and amazing interest 
 which arises from the stings of conscience contending with the 
 stubborn energy of pride, and delighting to be placed in supposed 
 situations of guilt and danger, as some men love instinctively to 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR. 141 
 
 They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
 That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
 Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
 The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 
 And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
 The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
 Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 
 Still seems there something he would not have seen: 
 His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
 At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view. 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
 Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
 Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
 There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
 The full encounter of his searching eye : 
 He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
 At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
 
 tread the giddy edge of a precipice, or, holding by some frail 
 twig, to stoop forward over the abyss into wliich the dark torrent 
 discharges itself. Or, it may be that these disguises were as- 
 sumed capriciously, as a man might choose the cloak, the poniard, 
 and dark lantern of a bravo, for his disguise at a masquerade. 
 Or, feeling his own powers in painting the sombre and the hor- 
 rible, Lord Byron assumed in his fervour the very semblance of 
 the characters he describes ; like an actor who presents on the 
 stage at once his own person and the tragic character with which 
 for the time he is invested. Nor is it altogether incompatible 
 Avith his character to believe that, in contempt of the criticisms 
 which, on this account, had attended " Childe Harold," he was 
 determined to show to the public how little he was aifected by 
 them, and how effectually it was in his power to compel atten- 
 tion and respect, even when imparting a portion of his own like- 
 ness and his own peculiarities to pirates and outlaws. — Sir 
 Walter Scott.] 
 
142 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray- 
 Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to-day. 
 There was a laughnig devil in his sneer, 
 That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
 Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell !' 
 
 X. 
 
 Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
 
 Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought ! 
 
 Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
 
 Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
 
 The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
 
 Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
 
 Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien. 
 
 He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
 
 Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
 
 The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
 
 * That Conrad is a character not altog;ether out of nature, I 
 shall attempt to prove hy some historical coincidences which I 
 have met with since writing "The Corsair." 
 
 " Eccelin prisomiier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfermoit dans un 
 silence menacant, il fixoit sur la terra son visage feroce, et ne 
 donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde indignation. De toutes partes 
 cependant les soldats et les peuples accouroient ; ils vouloient voir 
 oet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de 
 toutes partes. # * * * Eccelin etoit d'une 
 
 petite taille ; mais tout I'aspect de sa personne, tous ses mouVe- 
 mens, indiquoient un soldat. — Son langage etoit amer, son de- 
 portement superhe — et par son seul egard, il faisoit trembler les 
 plus hardis." — Sismondi, tome iii. p. 219. 
 
 Again, " Gizcricus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con- 
 queror of both Carthage and Rome) staturft mediocris, et equi 
 casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus, luxuriae con- 
 temptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes 
 providentissimus," &c. &c. — Jornandes de Rebus Geticis, c. 33, 
 
 I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in counte- 
 nance my Giaour and Corsair. 
 
Canto I. T H E C O R S A I R. 143 
 
 That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
 Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
 Then — with each feature working from the heart. 
 With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
 That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow, 
 Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
 Then — stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
 Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
 Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
 The scathing thought of execrated years! 
 Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
 Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
 
 To lead the guilty — guilt's worse instrument — 
 
 His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
 
 Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
 
 Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 
 
 In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
 
 Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
 
 Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
 
 He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
 
 And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
 
 Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
 
 Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
 
 Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her 
 
 force. 
 He hated man too much to feel remorse. 
 And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
 To pay the injuries of some on all. 
 He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
 The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
 
144 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
 
 Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
 
 He knew himself detested, but he knew 
 
 Tlie hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded 
 
 too. 
 Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
 From all affection and from all contempt : 
 His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
 But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
 Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
 The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
 The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
 The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
 Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings. 
 And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings. 
 
 XII. 
 
 None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
 
 One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
 
 Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
 
 By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
 
 Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 
 
 And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
 
 Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged. 
 
 Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
 
 Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
 
 He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them 
 
 by; 
 Though many a beauty droop 'd in prison'd bower, 
 None ever sooth'd his most unguarded hour. 
 Yes — it was love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
 \Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 
 ( Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
 C\nd yet — oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR. 145 
 
 Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
 
 Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
 
 Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
 
 On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
 
 Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 
 
 Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
 
 Which naught removed, nor menaced to remove — 
 
 If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
 
 He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
 
 On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
 
 Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
 
 Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
 Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
 " Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 
 Nor know I why tliis next appears the last ! 
 Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
 Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
 'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
 Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
 And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile. 
 We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
 Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 
 Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
 As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze !) 
 To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
 Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart. 
 Long may her own be lighter than thou art ' 
 Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 
 Even insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
 This common courage which with brutes we share, 
 That owes its deadliest eftbrts to despair. 
 
146 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 Small merit claims — but 'twas my nobler hope 
 To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
 Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed : 
 No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 
 So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
 But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
 My lot hath long had little of my care, 
 But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
 Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
 Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
 Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
 She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thus with himself communion held he, till 
 He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: 
 There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
 He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
 Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung. 
 And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 
 
 1. 
 
 , '" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
 '\ Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
 ; Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
 Then trembles into silence as before. 
 
 " There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 
 Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen : 
 
 Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
 Though vain its ray as it had never been. 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR. 147 
 
 " Remember me — oh ! pass not thou my grave 
 Without one thought whose reUcs there recUne 
 
 The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
 Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 
 
 " My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 
 Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 
 
 Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 
 
 The first — last — sole reward of so much love !" 
 
 He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
 And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : 
 "■ My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 
 
 " In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
 
 Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
 
 Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray ; 
 
 Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
 
 My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
 
 Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
 
 My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind. 
 
 And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
 
 The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
 
 Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge. 
 
 That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
 
 Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
 
 Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
 
 And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
 
 And morning came — and still thou wert afar, 
 
 Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
 
148 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow- 
 Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
 At length — twas noon — I hail'd and bless'd the mast 
 That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it pass'd ! 
 Another came — oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 
 Would that those days were over I wilt thou ne'er, 
 My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
 Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
 As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
 Thou knowst it is not peril that I fear, 
 I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
 Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
 Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
 How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
 Should war with nature and its better will !"^ 
 
 " Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been 
 
 changed ; 
 Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged. 
 Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
 And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
 Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
 SMy very love to thee is hate to them, 
 ■: So closely mingling here, that, disentwined, 
 il cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
 
 * [Lord Byron has made a fine use of the gentleness and sub- 
 mission of the females of these regions, as contrasted with the 
 lordly pride and martial ferocity of the men : and though we 
 suspect he has lent them more soul than of right belongs to 
 them, as well as more delicacy and reflection ; yet, there is 
 something so true to female nature in general, in his representa- 
 tions of this sort, and so much of the oriental softness and 
 acquiescence in his particular delineations, that it is scarcely 
 possible to refuse the picture the praise of being characteristic 
 and harmonious, as well as eminently sweet and beautiful in 
 itself. — Jeffrey.] 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR. 140 
 
 Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
 
 Assures the future that my love will last ; 
 
 But — oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart; 
 
 This hour again — but not for long — we part." 
 
 " This hour we part ! my heart foreboded this : 
 
 Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
 
 This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
 
 Yon bark hath iiardly anchor'd in the bay : 
 
 Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
 
 Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
 
 My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst 
 
 steel 
 My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
 But trifle now no more with my distress. 
 Such mirth has less of play than bitterness. 
 Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest, come and share 
 The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
 Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
 See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best. 
 And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 
 At such as seem'd the fairest ; thrice the hill 
 My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
 Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
 See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
 The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
 Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
 Thiuk not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
 What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
 But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
 Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
 Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
 And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
 Or my guitar, which still thou lovest to hear, 
 Shall soothe or lull — or should it vex thine ear, 
 
150 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 We'll turn the tole, by Ariosto told, 
 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old,^ 
 
 Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
 
 To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
 
 Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile, 
 
 When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's isle, 
 
 Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
 
 And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
 
 Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 
 
 Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
 
 And he deceived me — for — he came again !" 
 
 /' Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 
 
 V If there be life below, and hope above. 
 He will return — but now, the moments bring 
 The time of parting with redoubled wing : 
 The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 
 Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 
 Yet would I fain — did time allow, disclose — 
 Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 
 And here shall watch a more than wonted guard. 
 
 ■ For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 
 Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 
 Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay; 
 And this thy comfort, that, when next we meet. 
 Security shall make repose more sweet. 
 List! — 'tis the bugle" — Juan shrilly blew — 
 
 \/" One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace. 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
 \ Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
 
 * Orlando Furioso, canto x. 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR. 151 
 
 Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
 In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
 So full — that feeling seem'd almost iinfelt ! 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
 It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
 Again — again — that form he madly press'd. 
 Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
 And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
 Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 ^' And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
 < How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
 " 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood ! 
 And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 
 And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
 Big — bright — and fast, imknown to her they fell ; 
 But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell !" 
 For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 
 We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 
 O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 
 Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 
 The tender blue of that large loving eye 
 Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 
 Till — oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him. 
 And then it flow'd — and frenzied seem'd to swim 
 Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dev/'d 
 With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
 "He's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 
 Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven : 
 
152 THE CORSAIR. Canto I. 
 
 ^,She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
 (The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
 ^" It is no dream — and I am desolate!"^ 
 
 XVI. 
 
 From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
 
 Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 
 
 But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
 
 Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
 
 His lone but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
 
 That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 
 
 And she — the dim and melancholy star. 
 
 Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar. 
 
 On her he must not gaze, he must not think. 
 
 There he might rest — but on destruction's brink: 
 
 Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
 
 His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 
 
 But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
 
 May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
 
 He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind. 
 
 And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
 
 Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
 
 The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 
 
 The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
 
 The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
 
 As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. 
 
 The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
 
 The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
 
 The mute adieu to those that stem the surge ; 
 
 ^ [We do not know any thing in poetry more beautiful or 
 touching than this picture of their parting. — Jeffrey. 
 
Canto I. T H E C O R S A I R. 153 
 
 And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
 
 He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
 
 Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
 
 He feels of all his former self possess'd ; 
 
 He bounds — ^lie flies — until his footsteps reach 
 
 The verge where ends the clifl", begins tbe beach, 
 
 There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
 
 The breezy freshness of the deep beneath. 
 
 Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
 
 Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
 
 For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
 
 By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
 
 His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 
 
 That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
 
 The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
 
 That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
 
 All these he wielded to command assent: 
 
 But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent. 
 
 That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
 
 And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
 
 When echoed to the heart as from his own 
 
 His deep yet tender melody of tone ; 
 
 But such was foreign to his wonted mood. 
 
 He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued : 
 
 The evil passions of his youth had made 
 
 Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 
 
 Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
 Before him Juan stands — "Are all prepared?'* 
 
 They are — nay, more — embark'd : the latest boat 
 
 Waits but my chief " 
 
 " My sword, and my capote." 
 
154 T H E C R S A I R. Canto I. 
 
 Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
 " Call Pedro here !" He comes — and Conrad bends, 
 With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
 " Receive these tablets, and peruse with care. 
 Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
 Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
 Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
 In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
 On our return — till then all peace be thine !" 
 This said, his brother pirate's hand he wrung, 
 Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
 Flash'd the dipp'd oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
 Around the waves' phosphoric^ brightness l)roke ; 
 They gain'd the vessel — on the deck he stands, — 
 Shrieks the shrill whistle, ply the busy hands — 
 He marks how well the ship her helm obeys. 
 How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
 His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
 Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
 Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
 And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 
 She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
 Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
 But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
 Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
 Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
 And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
 Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
 And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
 
 * By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke of the 
 oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by a slight flasli 
 lilie sheet lightning from the water. 
 
Canto I. THE CORSAIR. 155 
 
 They to the midnight watch protract debate; 
 To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
 jNIeantirne, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
 And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
 Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 
 And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
 Discovers where the pasha's galleys lay. 
 Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
 The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
 And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
 While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
 And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 "Conosceste i dubiosi desiri?" 
 
 Dante. 
 
 In Coron's bay lloats many a galley light, 
 Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
 For Seyd, the pasha, makes a feast to-night : 
 A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
 When he shall drag the fetter'd rovers home ; 
 This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
 And faithful to his firman and his word, 
 His summon'd prows collect along the coast. 
 And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
 Already shared the captives and the prize. 
 Though far the distant foe they thus despise : 
 'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's sun 
 Will see the pirates bound — their haven won ! 
 Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will. 
 Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 157 
 
 Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
 To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 
 How well such deed becomes the turbaned brave- 
 To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
 Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
 Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 
 And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
 Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
 To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
 Revel and rout the evening hours beguile. 
 And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
 For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
 And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 
 
 II. 
 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd; 
 Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
 Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
 Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quatl', 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice* 
 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslem's use ; 
 The long chibouques^ dissolving clouds supply. 
 While dance the almas^ to wild minstrelsy. 
 The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
 But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark ; 
 And revellers may more securely sleep 
 On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep : 
 Feast there who can — nor combat till they must. 
 And less to conquest than to Koran's trust ; 
 And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
 Might warrant more than even the pasha's boast. 
 
 * Coifee. ^ " Chibouque," pipe. 
 
 3 Dancing girls. 
 
158 T H E C O R S A I R. Canto II. 
 
 III. 
 
 With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
 Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor, 
 Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
 "A captive dervise, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here — liimself would tell the rest.'" 
 He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
 And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
 His arms were folded on his dark-green vest. 
 His step was feeble, and his look depress'd ; 
 Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years, 
 And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
 Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
 And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er: 
 Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
 And wrapp'd a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
 Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
 He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
 And question of his coming fain would seek. 
 Before the pasha's will allow'd to speak. 
 
 * It has been observed, that Conrad's entering disguised as a 
 spy is out of nature. Perhaps so. 1 find something not unlike 
 it in history. — "Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state 
 of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising- the colour 
 of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his own an> 
 bassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the dis» 
 covery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of 
 the Romans. Such an anecdote may be rejected as an impro- 
 bable fiction ; but it is a fiction which would not have been 
 imagined unless in the life of a hero."- — See Gibbon's Decline 
 and Fall, vol. vi. p. 180. 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 159 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Whence comest thou, dervise ?" 
 
 " From the outlaw's den, 
 A fugitive — " 
 
 " Thy capture where and when ?" 
 " From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
 The saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
 Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
 The rovers won ; our limbs have worn their chains. 
 I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
 Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost; 
 At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
 Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight ; 
 I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
 With thee — most mighty pasha ! who can fear !" 
 
 " How speed tlie outlaws? stand they well prepared, 
 Their plundered wealth, and robber's rock to guard? 
 Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
 To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?" 
 
 " Pasha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 
 
 That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
 
 I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
 
 Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; 
 
 I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky. 
 
 Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
 
 And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers. 
 
 Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
 
 This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
 
 They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
 
 Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
 
 That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
 
ir,0 THE CORSAIR. Canto II. 
 
 The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
 May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
 Pasha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
 Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
 Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
 With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 
 
 " Stay, dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
 I do command thee — sit — dost hear? — obey ! 
 More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
 Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
 The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
 Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 
 'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
 Who look'd not lovingly on that divan ; 
 Nor show'd high relish for the banquet press'd, 
 And less respect for every fellow-guest. 
 'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic past 
 Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: 
 He sate him down in silence, and his look 
 Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
 The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
 He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
 For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
 Metliinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
 
 " What ails thee, dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
 This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
 Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
 Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
 Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !" 
 
 " Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
 The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 161 
 
 And my stern vow and order's* laws oppose 
 To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
 It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
 That peril rests upon my single head ; 
 But for thy sway — nay more — thy sultan's throne, 
 I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
 Infringed our order's rule, the prophet's rage 
 To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 
 
 " Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
 
 One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
 
 How many? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day! 
 
 What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
 
 It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
 
 Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
 
 The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
 
 Accursed dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
 
 Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now ! " 
 
 Up rose the dervise with that burst of light, 
 Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
 Up rose that dervise — not in saintly garb. 
 But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
 Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
 Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
 His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
 More glittering eye, and black brow'd sabler gloom, 
 Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
 Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
 The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
 Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
 
 * The dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, as the 
 monks. 
 
lf,2 THE CORSAIR. Canto II. 
 
 The shriek of terror, and the mmgUng yell — 
 For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — ■ 
 Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
 Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
 Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
 Naught heeded they the pasha's angry cry, 
 They seize that dervise ! — seize on Zatanai !' 
 He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
 That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
 Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
 The flanrie was kindled ere the signal made ; 
 He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
 His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
 'Tis answered — "Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
 Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
 And deem design had left me single here ?" 
 Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway, 
 Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
 Completes his fury, what their fear begun, 
 And makes the many basely quail to one. 
 The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread. 
 And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, overwhelm'd, with rage, sur- 
 prise. 
 Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
 No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
 So much confusion magnifies his foe ! 
 His blazing galleys still distract his sight. 
 He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight f 
 
 1 "Zatanai," Satan. 
 
 - A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman angei. 
 See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. " The seraskier re- 
 ceived a wound in the thigh; he plucked up his beard by the 
 roots, because he was obliged to quit the field." 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 1C3 
 
 For now the pirates pass'd the harem gate, 
 And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
 Where wild amazement, shrieking — kneeUng - 
 
 throws 
 The Sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
 The corsairs pouring, haste to where within 
 Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
 Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
 Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
 They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
 A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
 But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
 "'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
 Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
 Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?" 
 
 V. 
 
 Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye. 
 But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
 Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
 Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
 " Oh ! burst the harem — wrong not on your lives 
 One female form — remember — loe have wives. 
 On them such outrage vengeance will repay ; 
 Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
 But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
 Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
 Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
 
164 THE CORSAIR. Canto 11. 
 
 He climbs the crackling stair — he Inirsts the door, 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
 His breath choked, gasping with the vohimed smoke, 
 But still from room to room his way he broke. 
 They search — they find — tliey save : with lusty 
 
 arms 
 Each bears a prize of unregarded charms : 
 Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 
 With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
 So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
 And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
 But who is she whom Conrad's arms convey 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away ? — • 
 Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 
 The harem queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,^ 
 
 Few words to reassure the trembling fair; 
 
 For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 
 
 The foe, before retiring, fast and far, 
 
 With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued. 
 
 First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
 
 This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few. 
 
 Compared with his, the corsair's roving crew. 
 
 And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
 
 The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
 
 Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
 
 Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 
 
 And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 
 
 The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 
 
 ^ Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the flower of 
 the pomegranate. 
 
save VvitTi iust7,' g-rm-: 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 165 
 
 When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
 
 And those who fought for conquest strike for hfe. 
 
 Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
 
 His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 
 
 "One effort — one — to break the circling host ! 
 
 They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ; 
 
 Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 
 
 Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
 
 Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
 
 Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled 
 
 o'er; 
 But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
 And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his breath. 
 Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But first, ere came the rallying host to blows. 
 And ranli to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
 Gulnare and all her harem handmaids freed. 
 Safe in the dome of one who held their creed. 
 By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
 And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
 And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
 Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair. 
 Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
 That smooth'd his accents; soften'd in his eye: 
 'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore be- 
 
 dew'd, 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 The pasha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
 The corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright. 
 As if his homage were a woman's right. 
 
16G THE CORSAIR. Canto II. 
 
 " The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain: 
 Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
 If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
 The life — my loving lord remember'd not !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
 
 But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
 
 Far from his band, and battling with a host 
 
 That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
 
 Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought. 
 
 And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
 
 Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
 
 While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 
 
 And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
 
 But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
 
 Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 
 
 Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
 
 When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law : 
 
 'Tis he indeed — disarm'd but undepress'd. 
 
 His sole regret the life he still possess'd ; 
 
 His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
 
 Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could 
 
 kill. 
 Oh were there none, of all the many given. 
 To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
 Who more than all had striven and struck for death? 
 He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
 When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel. 
 For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
 Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
 He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
 That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 167 
 
 Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
 
 A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 
 
 Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound. 
 
 But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
 
 Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
 
 Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 
 
 The better warriors who beheld him near. 
 
 Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
 
 And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
 
 In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The leech was sent — but not in mercy — ^there, 
 To note how much the life yet left could bear; 
 He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
 And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
 To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
 Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
 And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
 Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
 Of torments this the longest and the worst. 
 Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
 That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
 While famished vultures flit around the stake. 
 "Oh ! water — water !" — smiling Hate denies 
 The victim's prayers — for if he drinks — he dies. 
 This was his doom ; — the leech, the guard were gone, 
 And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 
 
 X. 
 
 'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew- 
 It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
 
168 THE CORSAIR. Canto II. 
 
 There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
 '; When all its elements convulsed, combined — 
 / Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
 / And gnashing with impenitent remorse, 
 \ That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
 V But cries " I vvarn'd thee!" when the deed is o'er. 
 Vain voice ! the spirit, burning, but unbent, 
 May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
 Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
 And, to itself, all — all that self reveals. 
 No single passion, and no ruling thought 
 That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 
 But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
 All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
 Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
 Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 
 The joy itntasted, the contempt or hate 
 'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 
 ; The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
 Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
 Deeds, thoughts and words perhaps remember'd not 
 So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
 Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
 But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
 The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 
 Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 
 All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
 ; That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
 
 Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 
 \ To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
 / Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all. 
 ) All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
 ) Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 
 "; The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 169 
 
 Not the loud recreant wretch M'ho boasts and flies ; 
 But he who looks on death — and silent dies, 
 So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 
 He halfway meets him should he menace near ! 
 
 In the high chamber of his highest tower 
 
 Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the pasha's power. 
 
 His palace perish'd in tlie flame — this fort 
 
 Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
 
 Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
 
 His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 
 
 Alone he sat — in solitude had scann'd 
 
 His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
 
 One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
 
 "Oh ! how these tidings will Medora greet?" 
 
 Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised. 
 
 And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed; 
 
 But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief, 
 
 And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 
 
 ^' And now come torture when it will — or may, 
 
 More need of rest to nerve me for the day !" 
 
 This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
 
 And whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
 
 'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
 
 For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 
 
 And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
 
 She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
 
 One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
 
 Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 
 
 demn'd — 
 A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
 Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 
 
170 THE CORSAIR. Canto II. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
 Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
 He slept — Who o'er his placid skimber bends? 
 His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends ; 
 Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
 No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
 Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
 And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
 That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
 And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
 With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, — 
 That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
 Through guards and dunnest night how came it 
 
 there? 
 Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
 Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
 She could not sleep — and while the pasha's rest 
 In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
 She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
 Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
 And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
 Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
 Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
 Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; 
 And chill and nodding at the turret door. 
 They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no 
 
 more ; 
 Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring. 
 Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 171 
 
 She gazed in wonder — " Can he cahnly sleep, 
 While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
 And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
 What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
 True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
 And me and mine he spared from worse than woe: 
 'Tis late to think — but, soft — his slumber breaks — 
 How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 
 
 He raised his head — and, dazzled with the light, 
 His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
 He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
 Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
 " What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
 Methinks, my jailer's face shows wondrous fair !" 
 
 " Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one 
 Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
 Look on me — and remember her thy hand 
 Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
 I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
 Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
 
 " If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 
 
 That would not here in that gay hope delight : 
 
 Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 
 
 But still I thank their courtesy or thine. 
 
 That would confess me at so fair a shrine !" 
 
 Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 
 Is link'd a mirth — it doth not brinof relief — 
 
173 T H E C O R S A I R. Canto II. 
 
 That playfulness of sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
 
 And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
 
 And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
 
 Till even the scaffold^ echoes with their jest ! 
 
 Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
 
 It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
 
 Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
 
 A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
 
 And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
 
 As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
 
 Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life. 
 
 Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 
 
 XIV, 
 
 " Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 
 
 To soothe the pasha in his weaker hour. 
 
 Thee would I spare — nay, more, would save thee now. 
 
 But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ; 
 
 But all I can, I will : at least, delay 
 
 The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
 
 More now were ruin — even thyself were loath 
 
 The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 
 
 " Yes ! — loath indeed : — my soul is nerved to all. 
 Or fallen too low to fear a further fall : 
 Tempt not thyself with peril, me with hope. 
 Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 
 
 1 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne 
 Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she remarked, 
 that it "was too slender to trouble the headsman much." During 
 one part of the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave 
 some "77(oi" as a legacy : and the quantity of facetious last words 
 spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of 
 a considerable size. 
 
Canto II. T H E C O R S A I R. 173 
 
 Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 
 
 The one of all my band that would not die ? 
 
 Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
 
 Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
 
 My sole resources in the path I trod 
 
 Were these — ray bark — my sword — my love — my 
 
 God: 
 The last I left in youth ! — he leaves me now — 
 And man but works his will to lay me low. 
 I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
 Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
 It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
 My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
 That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
 My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
 For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
 Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
 And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
 And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare ! 
 Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 
 
 " Thou lovest another, then ? — but what to me 
 Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
 But yet — thou lovest — and — oh ! I envy those 
 Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose. 
 Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
 That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought." 
 
 '*' Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
 This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 
 
 " My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — no — no — not my 
 
 love — 
 Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
 
174 THE CORSAIR. Canto II. 
 
 To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
 
 I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
 
 I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
 
 To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 
 
 Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
 
 Of — ' Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer, ' No !' 
 
 Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
 
 And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
 
 But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
 
 And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
 
 He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
 
 Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 
 
 And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
 
 From one I never loved enough to hate. 
 
 No warmth these lips return by his impress'd, 
 
 And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
 
 Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal. 
 
 The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
 
 But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
 
 And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
 
 Or when reflection comes — and come it must — 
 
 I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust ; 
 
 I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
 
 'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
 
 Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
 
 Or seek another and give mine release, 
 
 But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
 
 Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign. 
 
 Remember — captive — 'tis to break thy chain ; 
 
 Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
 
 To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
 
 Who share such love as I can never know. 
 
 Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
 
 'Twill cost m.e dear — but dread no death to-day !" 
 
Canto II. THE CORSAIR. 175 
 
 She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 
 And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart. 
 And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
 And was she here? and is he now alone ? 
 What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his 
 
 chain? 
 The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain. 
 That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 
 Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 
 Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
 In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
 That weapon of her weakness she can wield. 
 To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 
 Avoid it — virtue ebbs and wisdom errs. 
 Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
 What lost a world, and bade a hero fly? 
 The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
 Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 
 By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 
 Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 
 And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
 The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
 What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing 
 O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, 
 By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt ; 
 While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt. 
 Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
 Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 
 
THE CORSAIR 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 "Come vedi — ancor non m'abbandona." 
 
 Dante. 
 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,' 
 
 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
 
 Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
 
 But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
 
 O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws. 
 
 Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
 
 On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle. 
 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 
 O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 
 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 
 * The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little 
 business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though 
 printed) poem; but they were written on the spot, in the spring 
 of 1811, and — I scarce know why — the reader must excuse their 
 appearance here — if he can. [See " Curse of Minerva."] 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 177 
 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse 
 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
 When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
 That closed their murder 'd sage's* latest day ! 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
 The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
 But ere he sunk below Citheeron's head. 
 The cup of woe was quafi''d — the spirit fled ; 
 The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
 Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 
 
 But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain. 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign.^ 
 No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 
 Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
 With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play. 
 There the white column greets her grateful ray. 
 And bright around with quivering beams beset. 
 Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
 
 * Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset, (the 
 hour of execution,) notwithstanding the entreaties of his disci- 
 ples to wait till the sun went down. 
 
 ^ The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own coun- 
 try : the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter du- 
 ration. 
 
178 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
 Wliere meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
 The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk. ^ 
 And, dun and sombre mid the holy calm. 
 Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm. 
 All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye — 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
 That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. ^ 
 
 II. 
 
 Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
 Oh ! who can look along thy native sea. 
 Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale. 
 So much its magic nuist o'er all prevail? 
 
 ^ The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is without 
 the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, 
 between which and the tree the wall intervenes. — Cephisus' 
 stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. 
 
 " [Of the brilliant skies and variegated landscapes of Greece 
 every one has formed to himself a general notion, from having 
 contemplated them through the hazy atmosphere of some prose 
 narration ; but, in Lord Byron's poetry, every image is distinct 
 and glowing, as if it were illuminated by its native sunshine ; 
 and in the figures which people the landscape, we behold, not only 
 the general form and costume, but the countenance, and the at- 
 titude, and the play of features and of gesture accompanying, and 
 indicating the sudden impulses of momentary feelings. The 
 magic of colouring by which this is effected is, perhaps, the most 
 striking evidence of Lord Byron's talent. — George Ellis.] 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 179 
 
 Who that beheld that sun upon thee set, 
 Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 
 Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
 Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
 Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain, 
 His corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
 Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
 Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
 Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone — 
 With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
 The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none. 
 I^ast eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
 His only tidings that they had not met ! 
 Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
 Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
 
 The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
 In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast ; 
 Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
 At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
 And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
 That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
 She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart. 
 Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
 Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
 His very sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 
 
 It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
 Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
 Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
 Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
 
180 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
 His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
 Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
 To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
 She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
 Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, 
 Within that meek, fair form, were feelings high, 
 That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
 While yet was hope — they soften'd — tiutter'd — 
 
 wept — 
 All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
 And o'er its slumber rose that strength which said, 
 "With nothing left to love — there's naught to dread," 
 'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
 Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
 
 " Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
 What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 
 Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
 The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 
 
 " Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 
 
 But here is one denies that he is dead : 
 
 He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive," 
 
 She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
 So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
 stood ; 
 Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
 She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
 Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
 But that, with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
 They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
 Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
 Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 181 
 
 Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
 That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
 Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
 The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange 
 With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
 All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
 IJreathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; 
 Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, 
 Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
 Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few. 
 Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 
 
 V. 
 
 Within the harem's secret chamber sate* 
 
 Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his captive's fate ; 
 
 His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 
 
 Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; 
 
 Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined. 
 
 Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind ; 
 
 While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 
 
 Sends in its idle search for sympathy ; 
 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,^ 
 
 ViWi inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
 
 " Pasha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
 Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fallen the rest ! 
 His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
 Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
 
 ^ [The whole of this section was added in the course of print- 
 ingr.] 
 
 ^ The comboloio, or Mohammedan rosary ; the beads are in 
 number ninety-nine. 
 
182 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
 With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
 Report speaks largely of his pirate hoard — 
 Would that of this my pasha were the lord ! 
 Wliile baffled, weaken 'd by this fatal fray — 
 Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
 IJut once cut off — the remnant of his band 
 Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 
 
 " Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
 
 Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
 
 If for each hair of his a massy mine 
 
 Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 
 
 If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
 
 Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 
 
 It had not now redeem'd a single hour ; 
 
 But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 
 
 And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
 
 On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 
 
 " Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
 Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
 My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
 His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
 Disabled, shorn of half his might and band. 
 His capture could but wait thy first command." 
 
 "His capture could! — and shall I then resign 
 One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 
 Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine ! 
 Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
 That thus repays this giaour's relenting mood. 
 Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 
 No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 18J 
 
 My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 
 
 I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
 
 I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
 
 Of thine stamps truth on all suspicion heard. 
 
 Borne in his arms through lire from yon serai — 
 
 Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
 
 Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 
 
 Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
 
 Then, lovely dame, hethink thee ! and beware : 
 
 'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 
 
 Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
 
 Accursed was the moment when he bore 
 
 Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 
 
 I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — 
 
 Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 
 
 Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 
 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
 
 Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 
 
 He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
 Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
 Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
 Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
 And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
 When soft could feel, and when incensed coifld dare. 
 His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
 How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
 She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
 A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
 Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
 Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
 Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
 That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes ! 
 
184 T H E C R S A I R. Canto III. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Mean while — long — anxious — weary — still — the same 
 
 Roll'd day and night — his soul could terror tame — 
 
 This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
 
 When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 
 
 When every step that echo'd by the gate, 
 
 Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
 
 When every voice that grated on his ear 
 
 Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
 
 Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
 
 Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
 
 'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 
 
 That conflict, deadlier far than all before : 
 
 The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
 
 Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
 
 But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude. 
 
 To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
 
 To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
 
 Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
 
 Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
 
 To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
 
 With not a friend to animate, and tell 
 
 To others' ears that death became thee well ; 
 
 Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
 
 And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 
 
 Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 
 
 Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 
 
 But deeply feels a single cry would shame. 
 
 To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim; 
 
 The life thou leavest below, denied above 
 
 By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
 
 And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
 
 Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 185 
 
 Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
 And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
 And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 
 Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 
 
 vir. 
 
 The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 
 
 The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
 
 But what her words avoucli'd, her charms had done, 
 
 Or else he had not seen another sun, 
 
 The fourth day roU'd along, and with the night 
 
 Came storm and darkness in their mingling might: 
 
 Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep. 
 
 That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
 
 And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
 
 Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
 
 Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
 
 And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
 
 And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
 
 A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
 
 Loud snng the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
 
 Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud : 
 
 And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
 
 To him more genial than the midnight star : 
 
 Close to the glimmering gate he dragg'd his chain, 
 
 And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
 
 He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
 
 One pitying flash to mar the form it made :^ 
 
 * [" By the way — ^I have a charge against you. As the great 
 Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occasion, ' By G — d, that is 
 my thunder!' — so do I exclaim, ' This is nuj lightning!' I allude 
 to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Petrowna and the Em- 
 press, where the thought and almost expression are similar to 
 Conrad's in the third canto of tlie ' Corsair.' I, however, do not 
 
136 THE CORSAIR. Canto HI. 
 
 His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
 The storm roU'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
 Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
 As if some faintless friend had spnrn'd his groan ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
 A light step came — it paused — it moved once more , 
 Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
 'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
 Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
 And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
 Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
 More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
 On him she cast her dark and hurried eye. 
 Which spoke before her accents — " Thou must die ! 
 Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource. 
 The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 
 
 " Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
 What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
 Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
 And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
 
 say this to accuse you, but to except myself from suspicion ; as 
 there is a priority of six months' publication, on my part, between 
 the appearance of that composition and of your tragedies." — 
 T.nrd Byron to Mr. Sothehy, Sept. 23, 1815. — the following are 
 the lines in Mr. Sotheby's tragedy : — 
 
 " And I have leapt 
 
 In transport from my flinty couch, to welcome 
 
 Tire thunder as it burst upon my roof; 
 
 And beckon'd to the lightning, as it flash'd 
 
 And sparkled on these fetters." 
 
 Notwithstanding Lord Byron's precaution, the coincidence in 
 question was cited against him, some years after, in a periodical 
 journal.] 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 187 
 
 Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
 Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 
 
 " Why should I seek ? because — oh ! didst thou 
 
 not 
 Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
 Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
 To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
 And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
 With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
 Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 
 It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — ■ 
 
 loved. 
 Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
 Thou lovest another — and I love in vain ; 
 Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
 I rush through peril which she would not dare ; 
 If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
 Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
 An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
 What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
 But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
 Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
 If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free. 
 Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me !" 
 
 " Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
 With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ! 
 Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
 Or is that instrument more fit for fight?" 
 
 " Misdoubting corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 
 Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
 A single word of mine removes that chain: 
 Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
 
188 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
 
 If in alight evil, for thy sake the crime : 
 
 The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
 
 I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
 
 Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 
 
 Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
 
 Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
 
 V'es, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
 
 I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 
 
 But he has said it — and the jealous well 
 
 (Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel) 
 
 Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
 
 I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 
 
 Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
 
 I was a slave unmurmuring ; he hath said. 
 
 But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 
 
 'Twas false, thou know'st — but let such augurs 
 
 rue. 
 Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
 Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 
 This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
 New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
 Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 
 Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 
 When wearier of these fleeting charms and me. 
 There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 
 What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 
 To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 
 I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 
 If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
 But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 
 (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) 
 I still had saved thee — but the pasha spared. 
 Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 189 
 
 Thou lovest me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 
 
 Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — • 
 
 Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, tiiou wouldst not 
 
 start, 
 Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart; 
 'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
 It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
 But in one chamber where our path must lead, 
 There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor 
 
 Seyd !" 
 
 " Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
 
 My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
 
 Seyd is mine enemy ; had swept my band 
 
 From earth, with ruthless but with open hand, 
 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
 
 To smite the smiter with the scimitar : 
 
 Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
 
 Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
 
 Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this — 
 
 Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
 
 Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 
 
 Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 
 
 '• Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake. 
 
 And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
 
 I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
 
 If thou wilt perisli, I will fall with thee. 
 
 My life — my love — my hatred — all below 
 
 Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 
 
 Without it flight were idle — how evade 
 
 His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
 
 My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years. 
 
 One blow shall cancel with our future fears; 
 
190 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 
 I'll try the firmness of a female hand. 
 
 The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — 
 
 Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 
 
 If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
 
 Will hover o'er thy scaffold and my shroud." 
 
 IX. 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
 
 But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 
 
 And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
 
 His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
 
 Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
 
 He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
 
 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 
 
 That passage led; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
 
 He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
 
 Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
 
 Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 
 
 Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
 
 He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 
 
 Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
 
 Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
 
 From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
 
 Toward it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
 
 Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
 
 With hasty step a figure outward past. 
 
 Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis She at 
 
 last! 
 No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
 "Thanks to that softening heart — she could not 
 
 kill!" 
 Again he look'd ; the wildness of her eye 
 Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
 
Canto III. T H E C O R S A I R. 191 
 
 She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
 Tliat nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair ; 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 Tliey meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 
 Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
 Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! 
 
 He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
 
 O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
 
 He had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain 
 
 Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
 
 But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
 
 From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
 
 So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
 
 As now they froze before that purple stain. 
 
 That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
 
 Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
 
 Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but 
 
 then 
 It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 '' 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
 Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
 Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
 The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
 And these thy yet surviving band shall join ; 
 Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. 
 When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 
 
193 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
 Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 
 Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
 Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
 But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
 As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
 No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
 Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
 The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
 The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
 And Conrad, following at her beck, obey'd. 
 Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
 Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
 Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew 
 How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
 Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape 
 Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
 Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time. 
 Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
 As its far shadow frown'd above the mast. 
 He veil'd his face, and sorrowed as he pass'd ; 
 He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band. 
 His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
 He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
 He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide .' 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
 Their freezing aspect and averted air. 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 193 
 
 And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
 Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
 She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
 "Thou mayst forgive, though Allah's self detest ; 
 But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
 Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now ! 
 I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
 My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite ! 
 If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
 Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 
 
 XV. 
 
 She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
 
 Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; 
 
 But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexpress'd, 
 
 They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
 
 Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge. 
 
 The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 
 
 Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
 
 A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
 
 Their little bark her men of watch descry. 
 
 And ampler canvass woos the wind from high ; 
 
 She bears her down majestically near. 
 
 Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 
 
 A flash is seen — the ball beyond her bow 
 
 Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
 
 Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
 
 A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
 
 " 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 
 
 I am not all deserted on the main !" 
 
 They own the signal, answer to the hail. 
 
 Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
 
 "'Tis Conrad ! Conrad !" shouting from the deck. 
 
 Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
 
194 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
 
 They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; 
 
 A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
 
 Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
 
 He, half forgetting danger and defeat. 
 
 Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
 
 Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 
 
 And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
 Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
 They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 
 A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
 She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
 Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
 With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
 Tliey whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
 And her, at once above — beneath her sex. 
 Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
 To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
 She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; 
 Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
 Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign 'd the rest. 
 Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
 Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
 The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ? — ^ 
 f Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
 
 ■i [" I have added a section for Gulnare, to fill up the parting-, 
 and dismiss her more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gifford or you 
 dislike, 'tis but a spatige and another midnight." — Lord Byron 
 to Mr. Murray, Jan. II, 1814.] 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 195 
 
 ^•What she has done no tears can wash away, 
 /And Heaven must punish on its angry day: 
 \But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
 ( For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
 / And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
 } Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
 \ And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave 
 / Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he 
 gave. 
 Who now seem'd changed and humbled: — faint and 
 ( meek, 
 
 , But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
 I To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
 I That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
 1 He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
 ; So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
 ) He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
 • Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
 "Gulnare!" — but she replied not — "Dear Gul- 
 
 nare 
 
 I" 
 
 She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
 At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
 If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
 His had been more or less than mortal heart. 
 But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
 Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast. 
 His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
 Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
 That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
 The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
 To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, 
 To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling. 
 As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 
 
196 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
 
 To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
 
 The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
 
 The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 
 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; 
 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 
 
 Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams. 
 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
 
 Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home. 
 
 Like hope's gay glance from ocean's troubled foam ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
 And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
 He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 
 Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
 'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
 Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
 With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
 And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
 Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
 To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 
 With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 
 He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 
 Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and 
 
 high 
 Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 
 
 He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
 Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
 He knock'd, and loudly — footsteps nor reply 
 Announced that any heard or deeni'd him nigh ; 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. lo: 
 
 He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
 Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
 The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face — 
 But not the form he panted to embrace. 
 Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
 He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
 It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
 But glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
 Another checkers o'er the shadow'd lloor ; 
 His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
 All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 
 
 He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 
 
 And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
 
 He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
 
 And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
 
 In life itself she was so still and fair, 
 
 That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
 
 And the cold flowers^ her colder hand contain'd, 
 
 In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
 
 As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
 
 And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
 
 The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
 
 And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 
 
 below — 
 Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might. 
 And hurls the spirit from her throne of light , 
 
 * In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies 
 of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place a nose- 
 gay- 
 
193 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 Sinks those blue orbs in that long, last eclipse, 
 But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
 Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
 And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
 But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
 Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
 Which, late the sport of every summer wind. 
 Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
 These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier— 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
 By the first glance of that still marble brow. 
 It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
 The love of youth, the hope of better years. 
 The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
 The only living thing he could not hate. 
 Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
 But did not feel it^^less ; — the good explore, 
 For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : 
 The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
 Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe. 
 Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
 But who in patience parts with all delight ! 
 Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
 Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn, 
 And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
 In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 By those, that deepest feel, is ill express'd 
 The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 199 
 
 Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
 Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
 No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
 On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion press'd, 
 And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; 
 So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
 To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
 It was the very weakness of his brain. 
 Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
 None saw his trickling tears — perchance if seen, 
 That useless flood of grief had never been : 
 Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
 In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
 The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
 And the night cometh, ne'er to pass from him. 
 There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
 On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
 Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
 To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 His heart wasform'dfor softness — warp'dto wrong;^ 
 Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
 Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
 Within the grot ; like that had harden'd too ; 
 Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
 But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
 Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock. 
 If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
 There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow. 
 Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now. 
 
 * [These sixteen lines are not in the original MS.] 
 
200 T H E C R S A I R. Canto III. 
 
 The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
 
 The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth ; 
 
 The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
 
 Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell ; 
 
 And of its cold protector, blacken round 
 
 But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
 
 Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
 
 He was not there, nor seen along the shore ; 
 
 FJre night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
 
 Another morn — another bids them seek, 
 
 And shout his name till echo waxeth weak : 
 
 Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
 
 They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
 
 Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
 
 'Tis idle all — moons roil on moons away. 
 
 And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
 
 Nor trace, nor tidmgs of his doom declare 
 
 Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
 
 Long raourn'd his band whom none could mourn 
 
 beside ; 
 And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
 For him they raise not the recording stone — 
 His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
 He left a corsair's name to other times, 
 Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.^ 
 
 1 [In " The Corsair," Lord Byron first felt himself at full 
 liberty ; and then all at once he shows the unbroken stream of 
 his native eloquence, of rapid narrative, of vigorous and intense, 
 yet unforced imagery, sentiment, and thought : of extraordinary 
 elasticity, transparency, purity, ease, and harmony of language; 
 of an arrangement of words, never trite, yet always simple and 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 201 
 
 flowing ; in such a perfect expression of ideas, always impres- 
 sive, generally pointed, frequently passionate, and often new, 
 that it is perspicuity itself, with not a superfluous word, and not 
 a word out of its natural place. It is strange that he who was so 
 young, who had led a life of adventure more than of study, nay, 
 who had often seemed a good deal encumbered in his phraseolo- 
 gy, could all at once arrive at this excellence. It must have been 
 the exaltation of spirit caused by temporary and unexpected 
 favour, which, by removing the gloom from his heart, imparted 
 extraordinary vigour to his intellect. — Sir E. Brydges. 
 
 The "Corsair" is written in the regular heroic couplet, with a 
 spirit, freedom, and variety of tone, of which, notwithstanding 
 the example of Dryden, we scarcely believed that measure sus- 
 ceptible. It was yet to be proved that this, the most ponderous 
 and stately verse in our language, could be accommodated to the 
 variations of a tale of passion and of pity, and to all the breaks, 
 starts, and transitions of an adventurous and dramatic narration. 
 This experiment Lord Byron has made, with equal boldness and 
 success ; and has satisfied us, that the oldest and most respecta- 
 ble measure that is known amongst us, is at least as flexible as 
 any other, and capable, in the hands of a master, of vibrations as 
 strong and rapid as those of a lighter structure. — Jeffrey.] 
 
 That the point of honour, which is represented in one instance 
 of Conrad's character, has not been carried beyond the bounds of 
 probability, may perhaps be in some degree confirmed by the fol- 
 lowing anecdote of a brother buccaneerin the year 1814 : — " Our 
 readers have all seen the account of the enterprise against the 
 pirates of Barrataria ; but few, we believe, were informed of the 
 situation,history, or nature of that establishment. For the informa- 
 tion of such as were unacquainted with it, we have procured 
 from a friend the following interesting narrative of the main facts, 
 of which he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to 
 interest some of our readers. — Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm 
 of the Gulf of Mexico ; it runs through a rich but very flatcountry, 
 until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen miles 
 below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost in- 
 numerable, in which persons can lie concealed from the severest 
 
202 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 scrutiny. It communicates with tliree lakes which lie on the south- 
 west side, and these with tlie lake of the same name which lies 
 contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by the two 
 arms of this hike and the sea. The east and west points of this 
 island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates under 
 the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these 
 outlaws are of that class of the population of the state of Louisiana 
 who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles there, 
 and took refuge in the island of Cuba; and when the last war be- 
 tween France and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave 
 that island with the short notice of a few days. Without cere- 
 mony they entered the United States, the most of them the state 
 of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. 
 They were notified by the governor of that state of the clause in 
 the constitution which forbade the importation of slaves ; but, at 
 the same time, received the assurance of the governor tliat he 
 would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the general govern- 
 ment for their retaining this property. — The island of Barrataria 
 is situated about lat. 29° 15' Ion. 92° 30' ; and is as remark- 
 able for its health as for the superior scale and shellfish with 
 which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles 
 de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the 
 year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed 
 the attention of the governor of Louisiana; and to break up the 
 establishment he thought proper to strike at the head. He there- 
 fore offered a reward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La 
 Fitte, who was well known to the inhabitants of the city of New 
 Orleans, from his immediate connection, and his once having 
 been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art 
 he learned in Bonaparte's army, where he was a captain. The 
 reward which was oifered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte 
 was answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 
 for the head of the governor. The governor ordered out a com- 
 pany to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to burn and 
 destroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New Orleans 
 all his banditti. This company, under the command of a man 
 who had been the intimate associate of this bold captain, ap- 
 proached very near to the fortified island, before he saw a man, 
 or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boat- 
 swain's call. Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed 
 men who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into 
 Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed 
 
Canto III. THE CORSAIR. 203 
 
 his few noble traits ; for to this man, who had come to destroy 
 his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his life, 
 but offered him that which would have made the honest soldier 
 easy for the remainder of his days ; which was indignantly 
 refused. He then, with the approbation of his captor, returned 
 to the city. This circumstance, and some concomitant events, 
 proved that this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. 
 Our naval force having' always been small in that quarter, exer- 
 tions for the destruction of this illicit establishment could not be 
 expected from them until augmented ; for an officer of the navy, 
 with most of the gun-boats on that station, had to retreat from 
 an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmenta- 
 tion of the navy authorized an attack, one was made ; the over- 
 throw of this banditti has been the result ; and now this almost 
 invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, 
 it is to be hoped the government will hold it by a strong military 
 force." — American Newspaper. 
 
 In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical History 
 there is a singular passage in his account of Archbishop Black- 
 bourne ; and as in some measure connected with the profession 
 of the hero of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the temptation 
 of extracting it. — "There is something mysterious in the history 
 and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but imperfectly 
 known ; and report has even asserted he was a buccaneer ; and 
 that one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on his 
 arrival in England, what had become of his old chum. Black- 
 bourne, was answered, he is Archbishop of York. We are in- 
 formed, that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 
 1G94, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his successor 
 Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following 
 year he became dean ; and in 1714 held with it the archdeanery 
 of Cornwall. He was consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 
 24, 1716 ; and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a re- 
 ward, according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
 Dutchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have been an 
 unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great pru- 
 dence, and was equally respectable as the guardian of the reve- 
 nues of the see. Rumour whispered he retained the vices of his 
 youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the 
 list of his weaknesses ; but so far from being convicted by seventy 
 witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated 
 
204 THE CORSAIR. Canto III. 
 
 by one. In short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of 
 mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have been 
 so good a scholar as Blackbourne certainly was 1 He who had 
 so perfect a knowledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek 
 tragedians) as to be able to read them with the same ease as he 
 could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to acquire the 
 learned languages ; and have had both leisure and good masters. 
 But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ-church College, 
 Oxford. He is allowed to have been a pleasant man ; this, how- 
 ever, was turned against him, by its being said, 'he gained more 
 hearts than souls.' " 
 
 "The only voice that could soothe the passions of the savage 
 (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable and virtuous wife, the 
 sole object of his love ; the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter 
 of the Duke of Savoy, and the granddaughter of Philip II. King 
 of Spain. — Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; his 
 fierce spirit melted into tears ; and after the last embrace, Al- 
 phonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, 
 and to meditate on the vanity of human life." — Gibbon's Miscel- 
 laneous Works, vol. iii. p. 473. 
 
LARA: 
 
 A TALE. 
 
[A FEW days after he had put the finishing hand to the "Ode 
 to Napoleon Bonaparte," Lord Byron adopted the most extra- 
 ordinary resolution that, perhaps, ever entered into the mind of 
 an author of any celebrity. Annoyed at the tone of disparage- 
 ment in which his assailants — not content with blackening his 
 moral and social character — now affected to speak of his genius, 
 and somewhat mortified, there is reason to believe, by finding 
 that his own friends dreaded the effects of constant publications 
 on his ultimate fame, he came to the determination, not only to 
 print no more in future, but to purchase back the whole of his 
 past copyrights, and suppress every line he had ever written. 
 With this view, on the 29th of April, 1814, he actually enclosed 
 his publisher a draft for the money. "For all this," he said, 
 " it might be as well to assign some reason : I haVe none to give, 
 except my own caprice, and I do not consider the circumstance 
 of consequence enough to require explanation." An appeal, 
 however, from Mr. Murray, to his good nature and considerate- 
 ness, brought, in eight-and-forty hours, the following reply: — 
 " If your present note is serious, and it really would be incon- 
 venient, there is an end of the matter : tear my draft, and go on 
 as usual : that I was perfectly serious, in wishing to suppress 
 all future publication, is true ; but certainly not to Interfere with 
 the convenience of others, and more particularly your own." 
 
 The following passages in his Diary depict the state of Lord 
 Byron's mind at this period : — " Murray has had a letter from 
 his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, ' lie is lucky in 
 having such a poef — something as if one was a pack-horse, or 
 ' ass, or any thing that is his ;' or like Mrs. Packwood, who re- 
 plied to some inquiry after the Odes on Razors, ' Laws, sir, we 
 keeps a poet.' The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once 
 sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable 
 postscript, — 'The Harold and Conkery are much wanted.' Such 
 is fame ! and, after all, quite as good as any other 'life in others' 
 breath.' 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah 
 tilasse or Hannah More." — "March 17th, Redde the 'Quarrels 
 of Authors,' a new work, by that most entertaining and research- 
 ing writer, D'Israeli. They seem to be an irritable set, and I 
 wish myself well out of it. 'I'll not march through Coventry 
 
208 L A R A. 
 
 with them, that's flat.' What the devil had I to do with scrib- 
 bling ! It is too late to inquire, and all regret is useless. But 
 an' it were to do again — I should write again, I suppose. Such is 
 human nature, at least my share of it ; — though I shall think 
 better of myself if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, 
 and that wife has a son, I will bring up mine heir in the most 
 anti-poetical way — make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or any thing. 
 But if he writes too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and will 
 cut him off" with a bank token." — "April 19. I will keep no 
 further journal ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, 
 to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this 
 volume. ' Oh fool ! I shall go mad.' " 
 
 These extracts are from the Diary of March and April. Be- 
 fore the end of May he had begun the composition of " Lara," 
 which has been almost universally considered as the continuation 
 of "The Corsair." This poem was published anonymously in 
 the following August, in the same volume with Mr. Rogers' ele- 
 gant tale of "Jacqueline;" an unnatural and unintelligible con- 
 junction, which, however, gave rise to some pretty good jokes. 
 " I believe," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters, " I told you 
 of Larry and Jacquy. A friend of mine — at least a friend of his 
 — was reading said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A 
 passenger took up the book and queried as to the author. The 
 jiroprietor said, ' there were two ,•' — to which the answer of the 
 unknown was, 'Ay, ay, — a joint concern, I suppose, summot like 
 Sternhold and Hopkins.' Is not this excellent ? I would not 
 have missed the 'vile comparison' to have escaped being the 
 ' \rcades ambo et cantare pares.' "] 
 
LARA. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 The serfs' are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
 
 And slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
 
 He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord. 
 
 The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored : 
 
 There be bright faces in the busy hall. 
 
 Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
 
 Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
 
 The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 
 
 And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
 
 With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 
 
 * The reader is apprized, that the name of Lara being Spanish, 
 and no circumstance of local and natural description fixing the 
 scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the word " serf," 
 which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, 
 who were never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been em- 
 ployed to designate the followers of our fictitious chieftain. — 
 [Lord Byron elsewhere intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief 
 of the Morea.] 
 
210 L A R A. Canto I. 
 
 II. 
 
 The chief of Lara is return 'd again : 
 And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
 Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
 Lord of himself ; — that heritage of woe, 
 That fearful empire which the human breast 
 But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
 With none to check, and few to point in time 
 The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
 Then, when he most required commandment, then 
 Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
 It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
 His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
 Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
 But long enough to leave him half undone.^ 
 
 III. 
 
 And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 
 But from the hour he waved his parting hand, 
 Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
 Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
 His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
 'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
 Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
 Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
 His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name. 
 His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
 Another chief consoled his destined bride. 
 The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
 
 * [Lord Byron's own tale is partly told in this section. — Sir 
 Walter Scott.] 
 
Canto I. LARA. 211 
 
 " Yet doth he live !" exclaims the impatient heir, 
 And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
 A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
 The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 
 But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
 That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 
 
 And whence they know not, why they need not 
 
 guess ; 
 They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er, 
 Not that he came, but came not long before : 
 No train is his beyond a single page, 
 Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
 Years had roU'd on, and fast they speed away 
 To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
 But lack of tidings from another clime 
 Plad lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
 They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
 The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
 
 He lives, nor yet is pass'd his manhood's prime, 
 Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by 
 
 time; 
 His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
 Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
 Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
 Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
 His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
 No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
 And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
 Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 
 
21'3 LARA. Canto I. 
 
 V. 
 
 And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen, 
 Whatever he be, 'twas not what he had been : 
 That brow in furrow'd hnes had fix'd at last, 
 And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
 The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
 Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
 A high demeanour, and a glance that took 
 Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
 And that sarcastic levity of tongue. 
 The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,^ 
 
 * [It is a remarkable property of the poetry of Lord Byron, that 
 although his manner is frequently varied, — although he appears 
 to have assumed for an occasion the characteristic stanza and 
 style of several contemporaries, — yet not only is his poetry marked 
 in every instance by the strongest cast of originality, but in some 
 leading particulars, and especially in the character of his heroes, 
 eacli story so closely resembled the other, that, managed by a 
 writer of less power, the effect would have been an unpleasant 
 monotony. All, or almost all, his heroes have somewhat the at- 
 tributes of Childe Harold : all, or almost all, have minds which 
 seem at variance with their fortunes, and exhibit high and 
 poignant feelings of pain and pleasure ; a keen sense of what is 
 noble and honourable ; and an equally keen susceptibility of in- 
 justice or injury, under the garb of stoicism or contempt of man- 
 kind. The strength of early passion, and the glow of youthful 
 feeling, are uniformly painted as chilled or subdued by a train of 
 early imprudences or of darker guilt ; and the sense of enjoyment 
 tarnished, by too intimate an acquaintance with the vanity of 
 human wishes. These general attributes mark the stern features 
 of all Lord Byron's heroes, from those which are shaded by the 
 scalloped hat of the illustrious Pilgrim, to those which lurk under 
 the turban of Alp the Renegade. It was reserved to him to pre- 
 sent the same character on the public stage again and again, varied 
 only by the exertions of that powerful genius which, searching 
 the springs of passion and of feeling in their innermost recesses, 
 knew how to combine their operations, so that the interest was 
 eternally varjdng, and never abated, although the most important 
 
Canto I. LARA. 213 
 
 That darts in seeming playfulness around, 
 
 And makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 
 
 All these seeni'd his, and something more beneath 
 
 Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 
 
 Ambition, glory, love, the common aim. 
 
 That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 
 
 Within his breast appear'd no more to strive. 
 
 Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 
 
 And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
 
 At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Not much he loved long question of the past, 
 Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
 In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
 And — as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
 Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan. 
 Nor glean experience from his fellow-man ; 
 But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show. 
 As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
 If still more prying such inquiry grew. 
 His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 
 
 personage of the drama retained the same lineaments. It will 
 one day be considered as not the least remarkable literary phe- 
 nomenon of his age, that during a period of four years, notwith- 
 standing the quantity of distinguished poetical talent of which 
 we maybe permitted to boast, a single author — and he managing 
 his pen with the careless and negligent ease of a man of quality, 
 and choosing for his theme subjects so very similar, and person- 
 ages bearing so close a resemblance to each other — did, in despite 
 of these circumstances, of the unamiable attributes with which 
 he usually invested his heroes, and of the proverbial fickleness 
 of the public, maintain the ascendency in their favour, which he 
 had acquired by his first matured production. So, however, it 
 indisputably has been. — Sir Walter Scott.] 
 
214 LARA. Canto I. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
 Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
 Born of high Hneage, hnk'd in high command, 
 He mingled with the magnates of his land ; 
 .Toin'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
 And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ;' 
 But still he only saw, and did not share, 
 The common pleasure or the general care ; 
 He did not follow what they all pursued 
 With hope still baffled still to be renew'd ; 
 Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain. 
 Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
 (Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
 Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
 Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 
 That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
 And things more timid that beheld him near, 
 In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
 And they, the wiser, friendlier few, confess'd 
 They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
 Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
 Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
 Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
 
 ^ [This description of Lara suddenly and unexpectedly re- 
 turned from distant travels, and reassuining his station in the 
 society of his own country, has strongs points of resemblance of 
 the part which the author himself seemed occasionally to bear 
 amid the scenes where tlie great mingle with the fair. — Sir 
 Walter Scott.] 
 
Canto I. LARA. 215 
 
 In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
 And found his recompense in joy or woe, 
 No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
 I In that intenseness an escape from thought : > 
 The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
 On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
 The rapture of his heart had look'd on high. 
 And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
 Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme. 
 How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
 Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
 To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Books, for his volume heretofore was man. 
 With eye more curious he appear'd to scan ; 
 And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day. 
 From all communion he would start away : 
 And then, his rarely call'd attendants said. 
 Through night's long hours would sound his hurried 
 
 tread 
 O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
 In rude but antique portraiture around : 
 They heard, but whisper'd — '■'■that must not be 
 
 know^n — 
 The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
 Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
 They scarce knew what, but more than should have 
 
 been. 
 Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
 Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead. 
 That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
 As if to startle all save him away ! 
 
216 LARA. Canto I. 
 
 Why slept he not when others were at rest ! 
 
 Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
 
 All was not well, they deem'd — but where the 
 
 wrong ? 
 Some knew, perchance — but 'twere a tale too long ; 
 And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
 To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 
 But if they would — they could" — around the board, 
 Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 
 
 It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 
 The stars are studding, each with imaged beam; 
 So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray. 
 And yet they glide like happiness away : 
 ' Reflecting far and fairy -like from high 
 The immortal lights that live along the sky : 
 Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 
 And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; 
 Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 
 And Innocence would offer to her love. 
 These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 
 In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 
 All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 
 You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 
 Secure that nought of evil could delight 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 
 It was a moment only for the good : 
 So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood. 
 But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 
 Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 
 Such scene reminded him of other days, 
 Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
 
Canto I. LARA. 217 
 
 Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now- 
 No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 
 Unfelt — unsparing — but a night hke this, 
 A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He turn'd within his sohtary hall, 
 And his high shadow shot along the wall ; 
 There were the painted forms of other times, 
 'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
 Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
 That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults ; 
 And half a column of the pompous page, 
 I'hat speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
 Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
 And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
 He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
 Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
 And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
 O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
 Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
 Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 
 His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
 And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
 Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
 His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 
 
 XII. 
 
 'Twas midnight — all was slumber; the lone light 
 Dimra'd in the lamp, as loath to break the night. 
 Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
 A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
 
218 LARA. Canto 1. 
 
 A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
 That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear? 
 They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
 Rush where the sound invoke their aid to save ; 
 They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
 And snatch'd in startling haste unbelted brands. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Cold as the marble where his length was laid. 
 Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
 Was Lara stretch'd ; his half-drawn sabre near, 
 Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 
 Ye he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
 And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 
 Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay. 
 There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
 Some half formed threat in utterance there had 
 
 died. 
 Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 
 His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook 
 Even in its trance the gladiator's look. 
 That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 
 And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
 They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he 
 
 speaks, 
 The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
 His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim. 
 Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
 Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
 In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
 Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
 To deem them accents of another land ; 
 And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
 That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear I 
 
Canto I. LARA. 219 
 
 XIV. 
 
 His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
 To know the import of the words they heard ; 
 And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
 They were not such as Lara should avow, 
 Nor he interpret — yet with less surprise 
 Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, 
 But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
 And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 
 And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
 To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
 If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
 A breast that needed not ideal woe. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld. 
 If yet remember'd, ne'er to be reveal'd. 
 Rests at his heart : the custom'd morning came. 
 And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 
 And solace sought he none from priest or leech, 
 And soon the same in movement and in speech 
 As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, — 
 Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers, 
 Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
 Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
 He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not. 
 Whose shuddering proved their fear was less for- 
 got. 
 In trembling pairs (alone they dare not) crawl 
 The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
 The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
 The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor : 
 
220 L A R A. Canto I, 
 
 The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
 The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
 Aught they behold or hear their thought appals. 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
 His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
 Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored ? 
 Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
 Betray 'd a feeling that recall 'd to these 
 That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
 Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
 Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
 Their slumber? his the oppress'd, o'erlabour'd 
 
 heart 
 That ceased to beat, the look that made them star* ? 
 Could he who thus had sufter'd so forget. 
 When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 
 Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
 Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
 In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
 The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
 Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
 Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
 Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
 They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd : 
 
LARA. 2-21 
 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
 
 In praise or raiUng ne'er his name forgot : 
 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 
 
 They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know 
 
 his fate. 
 What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, 
 Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
 A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
 With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
 But own'd that smile, if oft observ'd and near, 
 Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
 That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
 None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
 Yet there was softness too in his regard. 
 At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
 But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
 Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride. 
 And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
 One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem ; 
 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
 Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest; 
 In vigilance of grief that would compel 
 The soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
 As if the worst had fallen which could befall. 
 He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
 An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
 ' A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
 By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
 But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
 His mind would half exult and half regret : 
 
222 LARA. Canto I. 
 
 With more capacity for love than earth 
 
 Bestows on most of mortal monld and birth, 
 
 His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
 
 And troubled manhood foUow'd baffled youth ; 
 
 With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 
 
 And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
 
 And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
 
 In hurried desolation o'er his path. 
 
 And left the better feelings all at strife 
 
 In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 
 
 But haughty still, and loath himself to blame. 
 
 He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 
 
 And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
 
 She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm; 
 
 Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
 
 And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
 
 Too high for common selfishness, he could 
 
 At times resign his own for others' good. 
 
 But not in pity, not because he ought. 
 
 But in some strange perversity of thought. 
 
 They sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
 
 To do what few or none would do beside ; 
 
 And this same impulse would, in tempting tune, 
 
 Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
 
 So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 
 
 The men with whom he felt condernn'd to breathe, 
 
 And long'd by good or fll to separate 
 
 Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
 
 His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 
 
 Far from the world, in regions of her own ; 
 
 Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 
 
 His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
 
 Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd. 
 
 But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd I 
 
Canto I. LARA. 223 
 
 'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 
 And lilie the rest in seeming did and tallc'd, 
 Nor outraged reason's rules by flaw nor start, 
 His madness was not of the head, bnt heart ; 
 And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
 His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 With all that chilling mystery of mien. 
 And seeming gladness to remain unseen. 
 He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
 Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
 It was not love, perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
 That words can image to express the thought ; 
 But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
 And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
 ^And those to wliom he spake remember'd well, 
 yAnd on the words, however light, would dwell : 
 None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
 Himself perforce around the hearer's mind; 
 There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
 If greeted once ; however brief the date 
 That friendship, pity, or aversion knew. 
 Still there within the inmost thought he grew, 
 )You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
 / Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
 His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
 He forced an all unwilling interest : 
 Vain was the struggle in that mental net. 
 His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! ^ 
 
 li 
 
224 LARA. Canto I. 
 
 There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
 And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
 Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest 
 To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
 The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
 Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
 And the gay dance of bounding beauty's train 
 Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
 Bless'd are the early hearts and gentle hands 
 That mingle there in well according bands ; 
 It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
 And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
 And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
 So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 
 
 And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 
 His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
 A.nd his glance folio w'd fast each fluttering fair. 
 Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 
 He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh. 
 With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
 Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 
 111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 
 At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown, 
 But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
 Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 
 Who still till now had gazed on him unseen : 
 At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
 Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 
 
Canto I. LARA. 225 
 
 On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
 As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
 Along the stranger's aspect, fix'd and stern, 
 Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " 'Tis he !" the stranger cried, and those that heard 
 Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 
 "'Tis he !" — "Tis who?" they question far and near, 
 Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
 So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
 The general marvel, or that single look : 
 But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
 Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed; 
 And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
 "'Tis he! — how came he thence? — what doth he 
 here ?" 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 It were too much for Lara to pass by 
 
 Such questions, so repeated fierce and high; 
 
 AVith look collected, but with accent cold, 
 
 Wore mildly firm than petulantly bold. 
 
 He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
 
 " My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 
 
 Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
 
 The unlook'd-for courtesy of such a knight. 
 
 'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
 
 I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
 
226 LARA. Canto I, 
 
 " Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there 
 
 none 
 Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would 
 
 shun ? 
 And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again ! 
 At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
 Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
 Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
 With slow and searching glance upon his face 
 Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
 They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
 He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
 And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
 But the stern stranger motion 'd him to stay. 
 "A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
 To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer. 
 But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
 If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
 But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down. 
 Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
 
 Art thou not he whose deeds " 
 
 « Whate'er I be 
 Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
 I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
 May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
 The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
 ^V"hich thus begins so courteously and well. 
 Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest. 
 To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd." 
 And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
 " Whate'er there be between you undisclosed. 
 This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
 The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
 If thou. Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
 Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
 
Canto I. LARA. 22"; 
 
 To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak ihe rest ; 
 1 pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
 Though like Count Lara, now returu'd alone 
 From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
 And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
 I augur right of courage and of worth. 
 He will not that untainted line belie. 
 Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 
 
 " To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
 
 ^' And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 
 
 I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
 
 My words, so may I mingle with the bless'd !" 
 
 What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
 
 His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
 
 The words of many, and the eyes of all 
 
 That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 
 
 But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
 
 In far forgetfulness away — away — 
 
 Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
 
 Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow !" further word 
 Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
 Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
 From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
 Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, 
 Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown, 
 He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd. 
 And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd; 
 
228 LARA. Canto I. 
 
 And as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown, 
 With which the chieftain's brow wonld bear him 
 
 down : 
 It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
 That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
 But that of one in his own heart secure 
 Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
 Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 
 Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 
 Alas ! too like in confidence are each. 
 For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
 ■ From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
 i Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And Lara calPd his page, and went his way — 
 Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
 His own follower from those climes afar. 
 Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star; 
 For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
 In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
 Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
 Above his station, and beyond his years. 
 Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
 In such from him he rarely heard command; 
 But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
 When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home 
 Those accents, as his native mountains dear. 
 Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
 Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall, 
 Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
 For him earth now disclosed no other guide : 
 What marvel then he rarely left his side .'' 
 
Canto I. LARA. 229 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Light was his form, and darkly deUcate 
 
 Tliat brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
 
 But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
 
 The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 
 
 through ; 
 Yet not sucli bhish as mounts when heahh would show 
 All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
 But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
 That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
 And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
 From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
 Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
 Had tempered with a melancholy tinge ; 
 Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
 Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share : 
 And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
 The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page; 
 For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
 As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
 And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone. 
 Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
 His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
 His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook ; 
 He seem'd like him he served, to live apart 
 From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
 To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
 No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
 In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
 Each v/ish, fulfiU'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
 
230 L A R A. Canto I. 
 
 Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
 
 A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 
 
 His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
 
 In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
 
 As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 
 
 That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
 
 Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord. 
 
 To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; 
 
 To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, 
 
 On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 
 
 But ne'er to mingle with the menial train. 
 
 To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 
 
 But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 
 
 No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
 
 His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 
 
 Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
 
 Of higher birth he seem'd and better days, 
 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays. 
 
 So femininely white it might bespeak 
 
 Another sex, when matched with that smooth 
 
 cheek. 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 
 'More wild and high than woman's eye betrays; 
 A latent fierceness that far more became 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
 True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
 But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 
 Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 
 Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
 That name repeated loud without reply. 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 Start to the sound as but remember'd then ; 
 Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 
 For then ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
Canto I. LARA. 231 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all : 
 
 And when the crowd around and near him told 
 
 Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 
 
 Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
 
 Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
 
 The colour of young Kaled went and came, 
 
 The lip of ashes and the cheek of liame ; 
 
 And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
 
 The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 
 
 That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
 
 With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
 
 Yes — there be things which we must dream and 
 
 dare, 
 And execute ere thought be half aware : 
 Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
 To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
 He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
 That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; 
 When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell. 
 As if on something recognised right well : 
 His memory read in such a meaning more 
 Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 
 Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
 And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 
 Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien ; 
 All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 
 That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
 No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
 Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
 To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
 Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
 Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
 
23-2 LARA. Canto I. 
 
 And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
 With thoughtful visage and imperious air; 
 But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
 He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
 The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
 Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
 Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
 And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife, 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgelfulness of life : 
 There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
 Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile ; 
 O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 
 And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
 What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
 Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
 Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
 Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
 Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath. 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death. 
 And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 
 I Tliat sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 
 
LARA. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND.* 
 
 Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains 
 
 curl'd 
 Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
 Man has another day to swell the past, 
 And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
 But mighty Nature bomids as from her birth, 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
 Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam. 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
 
 ^ [Lord Byron seems to have taken a whimsical pleasure in 
 disappointing, by his second canto, most of the expectations 
 which Ire had excited by the first. For, without the resuscitation 
 of Sir Ezzelin, Lara's mysterious vision in his antique hall be- 
 comes a mere useless piece of lumber, inapplicable to any intel- 
 ligible purpose ; — the character of Medora, whom we had been 
 satisfied to behold very contentedly domesticated in the Pirate's 
 Island, without inquiring whence or why she had emigrated thither, 
 is, by means of some mysterious relation between her and Sir 
 fJzzelin, involved in very disagreeable ambiguity ; — and, further, 
 the highminded and generous Conrad, who had preferred death 
 and torture to life and liberty, if purchased by a nightly murder, 
 is degraded into a vile and cowardly assassin. — George Ellis.] 
 
234 LARA. Canto II. 
 
 Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
 And cry, exulting inly, " They are thine !'' 
 Gaze on while yet thy gladden'd eye may see : 
 A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 
 And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
 Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
 Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
 Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
 But creeping things shall revel in thy spoil, 
 And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall. 
 The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
 'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
 The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
 When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 
 And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
 His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given. 
 To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
 Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged, 
 Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 
 
 III. 
 
 The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
 With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
 Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past. 
 And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast. 
 " I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear. 
 If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
 The roof that held him in the valley stands 
 Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
 
Canto II. LARA. 235 
 
 My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
 Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
 But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
 And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 
 The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
 Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 
 
 He ceased — and Lara answered, " I am here 
 
 To lend at thy demand a listening ear 
 
 To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue. 
 
 Whose words already might my heart have wriuig. 
 
 But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 
 
 Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 
 
 I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
 
 In lands where — but I must not trifle too ; 
 
 Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 
 
 Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 
 
 Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
 His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
 " The last alternative befits me best, 
 And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 
 
 With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom. 
 However near his own or other's tomb ; 
 With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
 Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
 With eye, though calm, determined not to spare. 
 Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
 In vain the circling chieftains round them closed. 
 For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 
 And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
 His sword is good who can maintain them well. 
 
236 LARA, Canto II. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Short was the conflict, furious, blindly rash, 
 Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 
 Stretch'd by a dexteroussleight along the ground. 
 " Demand thy life !" He answer'd not: and then 
 From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
 For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
 Almost to blackness in its demon hue; 
 And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
 Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 
 Then all was stern coUectedness and art ; 
 Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 
 So little sparing to the foe he fell'd. 
 That when the approaching crowd his arm with- 
 held, 
 He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 
 Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
 But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 
 Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent. 
 As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
 That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 
 As if to search how far the wound he gave 
 Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 
 
 V. 
 
 They raised the bleeding Otho, and the leech 
 Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
 The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
 And he, incensed, and heedless of them all, 
 The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
 In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
 
Canto II. L A R A. 237 
 
 He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
 Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But where was he ? that meteor of a night. 
 Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
 Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went, 
 To leave no other trace of his intent. 
 He left the dome of Otho long ere morn. 
 In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
 He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
 But there he was not, and with coming day 
 Came fast inquiry, which unfolded naught, 
 Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
 A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
 His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distressed 
 Their search extends along, around the path. 
 In dread to meet the marks of prowler's wrath : 
 But none are there, and not a brake hath borne. 
 Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
 Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
 Wliich still retains a mark where murder was ; 
 Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale. 
 The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
 When agonized hands that cease to guard. 
 Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
 Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
 But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
 And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
 Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
 Then sudden silent when his form appear'd. 
 Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd. 
 
238 LARA, Canto II. 
 
 Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
 And dye conjecture with a darlier line. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heaPd, 
 But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 
 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
 The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 
 And from his country's justice now demands 
 Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
 Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
 His presence ? who had made him disappear, 
 If not the man on v^hom his menaced charge 
 Had sat too deeply were he left at large ? 
 The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
 The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
 The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
 To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
 The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray 'd, 
 The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
 Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
 Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 
 For it was not the blind capricious rage 
 A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
 But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
 With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 
 Such as long power and overgorged success 
 Concentrates into all that's merciless: 
 These, link'd with tliat desire which ever sways 
 Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
 'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm. 
 Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
 
Canto II. L A R A. 239 
 
 And he must answer for the absent head 
 Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Within that land was many a malcontent, 
 
 Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; 
 
 That soil full many a wringing despot saw. 
 
 Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 
 
 Long war without and frequent broil within 
 
 Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
 
 That waited but a signal to begin 
 
 New havoc, such as civil discord blends. 
 
 Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 
 
 Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
 
 In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
 
 Thus Lara had inherited his lands. 
 
 And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands; 
 
 But that long absence from his native clime 
 
 Had left him stainless of oppression's crime. 
 
 And now, diverted by his milder sway. 
 
 All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
 
 The menials felt their usual awe alone. 
 
 But more for him than tiiem that fear was grown ; 
 
 They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
 
 Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 
 
 And each long restless night, and silent mood. 
 
 Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
 
 And though his lonely habits threw of late 
 
 Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
 
 For thence the wretched ne'er unsooth'd withdrew. 
 
 For them, at least, his soul compassion knew; 
 
 Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
 
 The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
 
240 LARA. Canto II. 
 
 Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
 
 They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
 
 And they who watch'd might mark that, day by day. 
 
 Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
 
 But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost. 
 
 He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
 
 Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
 
 Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
 
 Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
 
 With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
 
 If this were policy, so far 'twas sound. 
 
 The million judged but of him as they found ; 
 
 From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
 
 They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
 
 By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot. 
 
 And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot ! 
 
 With him old avarice found its hoard secure. 
 
 With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
 
 Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
 
 Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence : 
 
 To hate he oft'er'd, with the coming change, 
 
 The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 
 
 To love, long baflled by the unequal match. 
 
 The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
 
 All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
 
 That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
 
 The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
 
 Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 
 
 His summons found the destined criminal 
 
 Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 
 
 Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven. 
 
 Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
 
 That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves, 
 
 Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
 
Canto II. LARA. 241 
 
 Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
 Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right ; 
 Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 
 A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
 Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread. 
 That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be 
 fed! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
 Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 
 Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
 The serfs contemn'd the one and hated both : 
 Tliey waited but a leader, and they found 
 One to their cause inseparably bound; 
 By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
 In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
 Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
 Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes. 
 Had Lara from that night, to him accurst. 
 Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
 Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
 Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
 By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
 E'en if he feil'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
 The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 
 The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
 Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
 His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge. 
 Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
 And is again: he only changed the scene. 
 Light care had he for life, and less for fame. 
 But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
 
24'2 
 
 LARA. Canto II. 
 
 He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
 And mock'd at ruin, so they shared his fate. 
 What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
 He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
 He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
 But man and destiny beset him there : 
 Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
 And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
 Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
 Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
 But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
 A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
 In voice — mien — gestiu-e — savage nature spoke. 
 And from his eye the gladiator broke. 
 
 X. 
 
 What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 
 
 The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 
 
 The varying fortune of each separate field. 
 
 The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 
 
 The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
 
 In this the struggle was the same with all ; 
 
 Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
 
 In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
 
 None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain. 
 
 The captive died upon the battle-slain : 
 
 In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 
 
 The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
 
 And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
 
 Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd t(j 
 
 slay. 
 It was too late to check the wasting brand. 
 And desolation reap'd the famish'd land; 
 
Canto II. L A R A. 243 
 
 The torch was hghted, and the flame was spread, 
 And carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 
 
 The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 
 
 But that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 
 
 They form no longer to their leader's call : 
 
 In blind confusion on the foe they press, 
 
 And think to snatch is to secure success. 
 
 The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate. 
 
 Lure on the broken brigands to their fate ; 
 
 In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 
 
 To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 
 
 In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 
 
 The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 
 
 The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 
 
 And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
 
 The feigned retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
 
 The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 
 
 The long privation of the hoped supply. 
 
 The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
 
 The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
 
 And palls the patience of his baflied heart. 
 
 Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
 
 They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
 
 But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 
 
 And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
 
 And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
 
 His numbers melting fast from their array ; 
 
 Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 
 
 And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent. 
 
244 LARA. Canto II. 
 
 But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 
 A thousand dwindled to a scanty band : 
 Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
 To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
 One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
 And thence they may escape from native war ; 
 And bear v/ithin them to the neighbouring state 
 An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
 Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
 But harder still to perish or submit. 
 
 xir. 
 
 It is resolved — they march — consenting niglit 
 Guides with her star their dim and torchless Ihght ; 
 Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
 Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
 Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
 Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
 Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
 'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
 Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height ? 
 Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
 Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
 Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their band, 
 Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
 It matters little — if they charge the foes 
 Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 
 Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
 However link'd to bafile such design. 
 
Canto II. L A R A. 245 
 
 " The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
 Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
 Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
 And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
 In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
 How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 
 
 As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
 
 A something of indifference more than then 
 
 Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
 
 He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near. 
 
 And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
 
 Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 
 
 Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
 
 Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
 
 The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
 
 This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 
 
 It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
 
 His lip was silent, scarcely bent his heart, 
 
 His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 
 
 Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee. 
 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee !" 
 
 The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 
 Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; 
 Well has each steed obey'd the arm'd heel. 
 And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
 Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
 Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
 And blood is mingled with the dashing stream. 
 Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 
 
216 LARA. Canto II. 
 
 Commanding, aiding, animating all. 
 Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall. 
 Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
 Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
 Bnt those that waver turn to smite again, 
 While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
 Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
 He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
 Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
 Now was the time, he waved his iiand on high. 
 And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
 The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast ! 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
 And Death has stricken down yon arm of pride. 
 The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
 That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
 Bnt yet the sword instinctively retains. 
 Though from its fellow shrhik the falling reins ; 
 These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow. 
 Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
 Too niix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
 The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head 
 
Canto II. LAI? A. 2\: 
 
 The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
 The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
 And some too near that rolling torrent lie. 
 Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
 Of those that die the soldier's fiery death. 
 In vain impels the burning montli to crave 
 One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
 With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
 Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept; 
 The faint remains of life such struggles waste. 
 But yet they reach the stream and bend to taste : 
 They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
 Why pause ? No further thirst have they to 
 
 slake — 
 It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
 It was an agony — but now forgot ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
 
 Where but for him that strife had never been, 
 
 A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
 
 'Twas Lara, bleeding fast from life away. 
 
 His follower once, and now his only guide, 
 
 Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
 
 And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rusii. 
 
 With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 
 
 And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 
 
 In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 
 
 He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 
 
 And merely adds another throb to pain. 
 
248 LARA. Canto II. 
 
 He clasps the hand that pang which would as- 
 suage, 
 And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 
 Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees. 
 Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 
 Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim. 
 Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, 
 Their triumph naught till Lara too should yield: 
 They would remove him, but they see 'twere 
 
 vain, 
 And he regards them with a calm disdain. 
 That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
 And that escape to death from living hate : 
 And Otho comes, and, leaping from his steed, 
 Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
 And questions of his state ; he answers not. 
 Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
 And turns to Kaied : — each remaining word 
 They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
 His dying tones are in that other tongue. 
 To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
 They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
 To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
 And he replied, though faintly, to their sound. 
 While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
 They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the 
 
 last 
 To half forget the present in the past ; 
 To share between themselves some separate fate, 
 W^hose darkness none beside should penetrate. 
 
Canto II. I^ A R A. 249 
 
 Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
 Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
 From this you might have deem'd young Kaled's 
 
 death 
 More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
 So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
 The accents his scarce moving pale lips spoke ; 
 But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
 And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely nea"r : 
 But from his visage little could we guess, 
 So unrepentant, dark, and passionless. 
 Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
 Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
 And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
 Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the east: 
 Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
 Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
 Or that 'twas chance, or some remembor'd scene. 
 That raised his arm to point where such had been. 
 Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
 And shrunk his glance before the morning light, 
 To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
 Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 
 For when one near display'd the absolving cross. 
 And proffer'd to his touch the h.oly bead. 
 Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
 He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
 And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with dis- 
 dain : 
 And Kaled, though lie spoke not, nor withdrew 
 From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
 
250 LARA. Canto II. 
 
 With brow repulsive and with gesture swift, 
 Flung back the hand whicli held the sacred gift, 
 As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 
 Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 
 That life of Immortality, secure 
 To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 
 
 His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd 
 
 o'er 
 The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
 He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain. 
 For that faint throb which answers not again. 
 " It beats !" — Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 
 It once was Lara which thou look'st upon.^ 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
 
 The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 
 
 And those around have roused him from his trance. 
 
 But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 
 
 ^ [The death of Lara is, by far, the finest passage in the poem, 
 and is fully equal to any thing else which the author ever wrote. 
 The physical horror of the event, though described with a terrible 
 force and fidelity, is both relieved and enhanced by the beautiful 
 pictures of mental energy and affection with which it is combined. 
 The whole sequel of the poem is written with equal vigour and 
 feeling, and may be put in competition with any thing that poetry 
 has produced, in point either of pathos or energy. — Jeffrey.] 
 
Canto II. LARA. 251 
 
 And when, in raising him from where he bore 
 Within his arms tlie form that felt no more, 
 He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
 Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
 He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
 The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 
 But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell. 
 Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
 Than that Ae loved ! Oh! never yet beneath 
 Thq^breastofjnan siich trusty Ipve^Qjay breathe ! 
 'That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
 The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
 Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; 
 And life return'd, and Kaledfelt no shame — 
 What now to her was womanhood or fame ? 
 
 And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep. 
 
 But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
 
 Nor is his mortal slumber less profound. 
 
 Though priest nor bless'd nor marble deck'd the 
 
 mound ; 
 And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
 Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief 
 Vain was all question ask'd her of the past. 
 And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
 She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
 Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
 Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — 
 I§^human love the.grqwth of human will ? 
 To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
 
252 L A R A. Canto II, 
 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
 They were not common links that form'd the chain 
 That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and bram ; 
 But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
 And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
 Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
 They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar 
 Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
 Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
 It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
 But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
 These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
 And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
 Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 
 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
 A serf that cross'd the intervening vale,^ 
 
 '■ The event in this section was suggested by the description 
 of the death, or rather burial, of the Duke of Gandia. The most 
 interesting and particular account is given of it by Burchard, and 
 is in substance as follows : — " On the eighth day of June, the 
 Cardinal of Valenza and the Duke of Gandia, sons of the pope, 
 supped with their mother, Vanozza, near the church o( S.Pietro 
 ad vincala ; several other persons being present at the entertain- 
 ment. A late hour approaching, and the cardinal having re- 
 minded his brother that it was time to return to the apostolic pa- 
 lace, they mounted their horses or mules, with only a few attend- 
 ants, and proceeded together as far as the palace of Cardinal As- 
 canio Sforza, when the duke informed the cardinal that before 
 he returned home he had to pay a visit of pleasure. Dismissing 
 therefore all his attendants, excepting his siafficro, or footman, 
 and a person in a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at sup- 
 
Canto II. LARA. 253 
 
 When Cynthia's Ught almost gave way to morn, 
 And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn. 
 
 per, and who, during the space of a month or thereabouts, previous 
 to this time, had called upon him almost daily, at the apostolic 
 palace, he took this person behind him on his nmle, and proceeded 
 to the street of the Jews, where he quitted his servant, directing 
 him to remain there until a certain hour ; when, if he did not re- 
 turn, he might repair to the palace. The duke then seated the 
 ])erson in the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither ; 
 but in that night he was assassinated, and thrown into the river. 
 Tbe servant, after having been dismissed, was also assaulted and 
 mortally wounded ; and although he was attended with great 
 care, yet such was his situation, that he could give no intelligible 
 account of what had befallen his master. In the morning, the 
 duke not having returned to the palace, his servants began to be 
 alarmed; and one of them informed the pontiff of the evening 
 excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not yet made his 
 appearance. This gave the pope no small anxiety ; but he con- 
 jectured that the duke had been attracted by some courtesan to 
 pass the night with her, and not choosing to quit the house in 
 open day, had waited till the following evening to return home. 
 When, however, the eveningarrived, and he found himself disap- 
 pointed in his expectations, he became deeply afflicted, and began 
 to make inquiries from different persons, whom he ordered to 
 attend him for that purpose. Amongst these was a man named 
 Giorgio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some timber from a 
 bark in the river, had remained on board the vessel to watch it ; 
 and being interrogated whether he had seen any one thrown into 
 the river on the night preceding, he replied, that he saw two men 
 on foot, who came down the street, and looked diligently about, 
 t') observe whether any person was passing. That seeing no one, 
 they returned, and a short time afterwards two others came, and 
 looked around in the same manner as the former : no person still 
 appearing, they gave a sign to their companions, when a man 
 came, mounted on a white horse, having behind him a dead body, 
 the head and arms of which hung on one side, and the feet on the 
 other side of the horse : the two persons on foot supporting the 
 body to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded towards that 
 part, where the filth of the city is usually discharged into the 
 river, and turning the horse, with his tail towards the water, the 
 two persons took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with 
 
254 L A R A. Cax\to 11. 
 
 A serf that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
 
 And hew the bough that bought his cliildren's food, 
 
 Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
 
 Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
 
 lie heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
 
 From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
 
 Wrapt round some burden at his saddle bow, 
 
 ]3ent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
 
 Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
 
 And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
 
 all their strength flunij it into the river. The person on horse- 
 hvick then asked if they had thrown it in ; to which they replied, 
 Signor, si, (}H-S, sir.) He then looked towards the river, and see- 
 ing a mantle floating on the stream, he inquired what it was that 
 appeared blaek, to which tliey answered that it was a mantle ; and 
 one of thein threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it 
 sunk. The attendants of the pontiff' then inquired from Giorgio, 
 why he had not revealed this to the governor of the city ; to which 
 he replied, that he had seen in his time a hundred dead bodies 
 thrown into the river at the same place, without any inquir}^ be- 
 ing made respecting them ; and that he had not, therefore, consi- 
 dered it as a matter of any importance. The fishermen and sea- 
 men were then collected, and ordered to search the river, where, 
 on the following evening, they found the body of the duke, with 
 his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. He was pierced 
 with nine wounds, one of which was in his throat, the others in 
 his head, body, and limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed 
 of the death of his son, and that he had been thrown like tilth into 
 the river, than, giving way to his grief, he shut himself up in 
 a chamber and wept bitterly. The Cardinal of tSegovia, and other 
 attendants on the pope, went to the door, and after many hours 
 spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon him to ad- 
 mit them. From the evening of Wednesday till the following 
 Saturday the pope took no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday 
 morning till the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, how- 
 ever, giving way to the entreaties of his attendants, he began to 
 restrain his sorrow, and to consider the injury which his own 
 liealth might sustain by the further indulgence of his grief.'"— 
 Roscoe's Leo Tenth., vol. i. p. 2G5. 
 
Canto II. L A R A. 
 
 Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
 Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse. 
 And hfting thence the burden which he bore, 
 Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from tlie 
 
 shore. 
 Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seeni'd to 
 
 watch, 
 And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
 And follow v/ith his step the stream that flow'd, 
 As if even yet too much its surface show'd ; 
 At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
 The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
 Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
 And slung them with a more than common care. 
 Meantime the serf had crept to where unseen 
 Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
 And something ghtter'd starlike on the vest ; 
 But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
 A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk ; 
 It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
 And left the waters of a purple hue. 
 Then deeply disappear'd ; the horseman gazed 
 Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
 And instant spurr'd him into panting speed : 
 His face was mask'd — the features of the dead. 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore. 
 And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
 If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul! 
 His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
 
'256 LARA. 
 
 And charit}^ upon the hope would dwell 
 It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin are gone, 
 
 Alike without their monumental stone ! 
 
 The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
 
 From lingering where her chieftain's blood had 
 
 been ; 
 Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
 Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
 But furious would you tear her from the spot 
 Where yet she scarce believed that he was )iot, 
 Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
 That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire : 
 But left to waste her weary moments there, 
 She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
 Such as the busy brain of sorrow paints, 
 And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
 And she would sit beneath the very tree 
 Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
 And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
 His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
 And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
 And oft would snatch it from her bosom there. 
 And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 
 As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
 Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
 Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
 From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
 Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
 And hide her visage with her meager hand, 
 Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
 
Canto II. L A R A. 257 
 
 This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
 Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved.^ 
 
 * [Lara, though it has many good passages, is a further proof 
 of the melancholy fact, which is true of all sequels, from the con- 
 tinuation of the yEneid, by one of the famous Italian poets of tlie 
 middle ages, down to " Polly, a sequel to the Beggar's Opera," 
 that "more last words" may generally be spared, without any 
 great detriment to the world. — Bishop Heber. 
 
 Lara has some charms which the Corsair has not. It is more 
 domestic; it call forth more sympathies with polished society ; 
 it is more intellectual, but much less passionate, less vigorous, 
 and less brilliant ; it is sometimes even languid, — at any rate, it 
 is more diffuse. — Sir E. Brydges. 
 
 Lara, obviously the sequel of " The Corsair," maintains in ge- 
 neral the same tone of deep interest, and lofty feeling ; — though 
 the disappearance of Medora from the scene deprives it of the en- 
 chanting sweetness by which its terrors are there redeemed, and 
 make the hero, on the whole, less captivating. The character 
 of Lara, too, is rather too elaborately finished,* and his nocturnal 
 encounter with the apparition is worked up too ostentatiously. 
 There is infinite beauty in the sketch of the dark Page, and in 
 many of the moral or general reflections which are interspersed 
 with the narrative. — Jeffrey.] 
 
 * [" What do the Reviewers mean by ' elaborate V Lara I wrote while un- 
 dressing, after coining home from balls and masquerades, in the year of revelry, 
 1814."— Byron Letters, 1822] 
 
THE 
 
 SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY HIS 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 " The grand army of the Turks (in 1715) under the 
 prime vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart 
 of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoh di Ro- 
 mania, the most considerable place in all that coun- 
 try,^ thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, 
 upon which they made several storms. The garrisou 
 behig weakened, and the governor seeing it was im- 
 possible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought 
 it fit to beat a parley : but while they were treating 
 about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turk- 
 ish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels of 
 powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven 
 hundred men were killed ; which so enraged the infi- 
 dels, that they would not grant any capitulation, 
 but stormed the place with so much fury, that they 
 took it, and put most of the garrison, with Signor 
 Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with 
 Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made 
 prisoners of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iii. 
 p. 151. 
 
 * Napoli di Romania is not now the most considerable place 
 in the Morea, but Tripolitza, where the pasha resides, and main- 
 tains his government. Napoli is near Argos. 1 visited all three 
 in 1810-11; and in course of journeying through the country 
 from my first arrival in 1809, 1 crossed the Isthmus eight times 
 in my way from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains : or in 
 the other direction, when passing from theGulf of Athens to that 
 of Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though 
 very different : that by sea has more sameness ; but the voyage 
 being always within sight of land, and often very near it, pre- 
 sents many attractive views of the islands Salamis, jEgina, Poro, 
 &c., and the coast of the continent. 
 
THE 
 
 SIEGE OF CORINTH.^ 
 
 In the year since Jesus died for men/ 
 Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
 We were a gallant company, 
 Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
 Oh ! but we went merrily ! 
 
 * ["With regard to the observations on carelessness, &c." 
 wrote Lord Byron to a friend, "I think, with all humility, that the 
 gentle reader has considered a rather uncommon, and decidedly 
 irregular, versification for haste and negligence. The measure is 
 not that of any of the other poems, which (I believe) were 
 allowed to be tolerably correct, according to Byshe and the fingers 
 — or — ears — by which bards write, and readers reckon. Great 
 part of the ' Siege' is in (I think) what the learned call anapests, 
 (though I am not sure, being heinously forgetful of my metres 
 and my Gradus,) and many of the lines intentionally longer or 
 shorter than its rhyming companion ; and the rhyme also occur- 
 ring at greater or less intervals of ca])rice or convenience. I mean 
 not to say that this is right or good, but merely that I could have 
 been smoother, had it appeared to me of advantage ; and that I 
 was not otherwise without being aware of the deviation, though 
 I now feel sorry for it, as I would undoubtedly rather please than 
 not. My wish has been to try at something different from my 
 former efforts ; as I endeavoured to make them differ from each 
 other. The versification of the ' Corsair' is not that of ' Lara ;' 
 nor the ' Giaour' that of the ' Bride :' ' Childe Harold' is, again, 
 varied from these ; and I strove to vary the last somewhat from 
 all of the others. Excuse all this nonsense and egotism. The 
 fact is, that I am rather trying to think on the subject of this note, 
 than really thinking on it." — Byron Letters, Feb. 181 G.] 
 
 ^ [On Christmas day, 1815, Lord Byron, enclosing this frag- 
 ment to Mr. Murray, says, " I send some lines, written some time 
 ago, and intended as an opening to the ' Siege of Corinth.' I had 
 forgotten them, and am not sure that they had not better be left 
 out now ; — on that, yon and your synod can determine." — "They 
 
264 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 We forded the river, and clomb the high hill, 
 Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
 Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 
 Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 
 Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,' 
 On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 
 Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 
 As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
 
 are written," says Moore, " in the loosest form of that rambling 
 style of metre, which his admiration of Mr. Coleridge's ' Christa- 
 bel' led him, at this time, to adopt: and he judged rightly, per- 
 haps, in omitting them as the opening of the poem, 'i'hey are, 
 however, too full of spirit and character to be lost. Though breath- 
 ing the thick atmosphere of Piccadilly when he wrote them, it is 
 plain that his fancy was far away, among the sunny hills and 
 vales of Greece." It will be seen, hereafter, that the poet had 
 never read " Christabel" at the time when he wrote these lines; 
 — he had, however, the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." With re- 
 gard to the character of the species of versification at this time 
 so much in favour, it may be observed, that feeble imitations 
 have since then vulgarized it a good deal to the general ear; but 
 that, in the hands of Mr. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, and liord 
 Hyron himself, it has often been employed with the most happy 
 eifect. Its irregularity, when moulded under the guidance of a 
 delicate taste, is more to the eye than to the ear, and in fact not 
 greater than was admitted in some of the most delicious of tlie 
 lyrical measures of the ancient Greeks.] 
 
 * [In one of his sea excursions. Lord Byron was nearly lost in 
 a Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the captain and 
 crew. "Fletcher," he says, "yelled ; the Greeks called on all 
 the saints ; the Mussulmans on Alia; while the captain burst 
 into tears, and ran below deck. I did what I could to console 
 Fletcher; but finding him incorrigible, I wrapped myself up in 
 my Albanian fcapote, and lay down to wait the worst." This 
 striking instance of the poet's coolness and courage is thus con- 
 firmed by Mr. Hobhouse : — " Finding that, from his lameness, 
 he was unable to be of any service in the exertions which our 
 very serious danger called for, after a laugh or two at the panic 
 of his valet, he not only wrapped himself up and lay down, in 
 the manner he has described, but when our dilTiculties were ter- 
 minated was found fast asleep."] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 265 
 
 Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 
 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. 
 And some, or I mis-say, of neither ; 
 Yet through the wide world might ye search. 
 Nor find a mother crew nor blither. 
 
 But some are dead, and some are gone. 
 And some are scatter'd and alone. 
 And some are rebels on the hills* 
 
 That look along Epirus' valleys, 
 
 Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
 And pays in blood oppression's ills ; 
 
 And some are in a far countree, 
 And some all restlessly at home ; 
 
 But never more, oh ! never, we 
 Shall meet to revel and to roam. 
 
 But those hardy days flew cheerily ! 
 
 And when they now fall drearily. 
 
 My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 
 
 And bear my spirit back again 
 
 Over the earth, and through the air, 
 
 A wild bird and a wanderer. 
 
 'Tis this that ever wakes my strain. 
 
 And oft, too oft, implores again 
 
 The few who may endure my lay. 
 
 To follow me so far away. 
 
 ^ The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the Arna- 
 outs who followed me) state him to be in revolt upon the 
 mountains, at the head of some of the bands common in that 
 country in times of trouble. 
 
266 THE SIEIGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 
 
 And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 
 
 I. 
 
 Many a vanish'd year and age, 
 
 And tempest's breath, and battle's rage. 
 
 Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands 
 
 A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands.^ 
 
 The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 
 
 Have left untouch'd her hoary rock. 
 
 The keystone of a land, which still, 
 
 Though fallen, looks proudly on that hill. 
 
 The landmark to the double tide 
 
 That purpUng rolls on either side, 
 
 As if their waters cliafed to meet. 
 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 
 But could the blood before her shed 
 
 Since first Timoleon's brother bled,^ 
 
 Or baffled Persia's despot fled. 
 
 Arise from out the earth which drank 
 
 The stream of slaughter as it sank. 
 
 That sanguine ocean would o'erfiow 
 
 Her isthmus idly spread below : 
 
 Or could the bones of all the slain, 
 
 Who perish'd there, be piled again, 
 
 That rival pyramid would rise 
 
 More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 
 
 Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 
 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss.^ 
 
 * ["A marvel from her Moslem bands." — MS.] 
 ^ [Timoleon, who had saved the life of his brother Timophanes 
 in battle, afterwards killed him for aiming at the supreme power 
 in Corinth, preferring his duty to his country to all the obligations 
 of blood. Dr. Warton says, that Pope once intended to write an 
 epic poem on the story, and that Akenside had the same design.] 
 ^ [The Giaour, the Bride of Abydos, the Corsair, Lara, the 
 Siege of Corinth, followed each other with a celerity, which was 
 only rivalled by their success ; and if at times the author seemed 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 2G7 
 
 II. 
 On dun Cithseron's ridge appears 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
 From shore to shore of either main, 
 The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
 Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
 And the dusk spahi's bands' advance 
 Beneath each bearded pasha's glance ; 
 
 to pause in his poetic career, with the threat of forhearing further 
 adventure for a time, the public eagerly pardoned the breach of a 
 promise, by keeping which they must have been sufferers. Ex- 
 quisitely beautiful in themselves, these tales received a new 
 charm from the romantic climes into which they introduced us, 
 and from the oriental costume so strictly preserved and so pictu- 
 resquely exhibited. Greece, the cradle of the poetry with which 
 our earliest studies are familiar, was presented to us among her 
 ruins and her sorrows. Her delightful scenery, once dedicated 
 to those deities who, though dethroned from their own Olympus, 
 still preserve a poetical empire, was spread before us in Lord 
 Byron's poetry, varied by all the moral effect derived from what 
 Greece is and what she has been, while it was doubled by com- 
 parisons, perpetually excited, between the philosophers and heroes 
 who formerly inhabited that romantic country, and their descend- 
 ants, who either stoop to their Scythian conquerors, or maintain 
 among the recesses of their classical mountains an independence 
 as wild and savage as it is precarious. The oriental manners, 
 also, and diction, so peculiar in their picturesque effect that 
 they can cast a charm even over the absurdities of an eastern 
 tale, had here the more honourable occupation of decorating that 
 which in itself was beautiful, and enhancing by novelty what 
 would have been captivating without its aid. The powerful im- 
 pression produced by this peculiar species of poetry confirmed 
 us in a principle, which, though it will hardly be challenged 
 when stated as an axiom, is very rarely complied with in practice. 
 It is, that every author should, like Lord Byron, form to him- 
 self, and communicate to the reader, a precise, defined, and dis- 
 tinct view of the landscape, sentiment, or action, which he intends 
 to describe to the reader. — Sir Walter Scott.] 
 
 *■ [Turkish holders of military fiefs, which oblige them to join 
 the army, mounted at their own expense.] 
 
268 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 And far and wide as eye can reach 
 The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd/ 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 And there the volleying thunders pour, 
 Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall. 
 Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
 And from that wall the foe replies, 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky skies. 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 The summons of the infidel. 
 
 III. 
 
 But near and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall. 
 With deeper skill in war's black art. 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
 From post to post, and deed to deed, 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail. 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
 Or where the battery, guarded well, 
 Remains as yet impregnable. 
 Alighting cheerly to inspire 
 The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
 
 * The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patriarchal 
 they dwell in tents. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 269 
 
 To guide the follower o'er the field, 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield. 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade !- 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
 
 And here, before her walls, with those 
 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes, 
 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
 
 Which young and fiery converts feel, 
 
 Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 
 Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ;" 
 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 
 Within the " Lion's mouth" had placed 
 
 A charge against him unefTaced : 
 
 He fled in time, and saved his life, 
 
 To waste his future years in strife. 
 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 
 In him who triumph'd o'er the cross, 
 
 'Gainst which he rear'd the crescent high, 
 
 And battled to avenge or die. 
 
270 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Coumoiirgi' — he whose closing scene 
 Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
 The last and mightiest of the slain, 
 He sank, regretting not to die, 
 But cursed the Christian's victory — 
 Coumourgi — can his glory cease. 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
 A hundred years have roll'd way 
 Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway ; 
 And now he led the Mussulman, 
 And gave the guidance of the van 
 To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
 By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
 And proved, by many a deed of death, 
 How firm his heart in novel faith. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 
 Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 
 
 * Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and grand 
 vizier to Achmet III., after recovering Peloponnesus from the 
 Venetians in one campaign, was mortally wounded in the next, 
 against the Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in the 
 plain of Carlowitz,) in Hungary, endeavouring to rally his 
 guards. He died of his wounds next day. His last order was 
 the decapitation of General Breuner, and some other German 
 prisoners; and his last words, "Oh that I could thus serve all 
 the Christian dogs !" a speech and act not unlike one of Cali- 
 gula. He was a young man of great ambition and unbounded 
 presumption : on being told that Prince Eugene, then opposed 
 to him, " was a great general," he said, " I shall become a 
 greater, and at his expense." 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 271 
 
 With unabating fury sent 
 
 From battery to battlement ; 
 
 And thmider-like the peaUng din 
 
 Rose from each heated culverin ; 
 
 And here and there some crackhng dome 
 
 Was fired before the exploding bomb ; 
 
 And as the fabric sank beneath, 
 
 The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 
 
 In red and wreathing columns flash'd 
 
 The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd. 
 
 Or into countless meteors driven. 
 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 
 
 Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun. 
 
 Impervious to the hidden sun, 
 
 With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
 
 To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not for vengeance, long delay'd. 
 
 Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
 
 The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
 
 Within these walls a maid was pent 
 
 His hope would win, without consent 
 
 Of that inexorable sire, 
 
 Whose heart refused him in its ire. 
 
 When Alp beneath his Christian name, 
 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
 
 In happier mood, and earlier time, 
 
 While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime. 
 
 Gayest in gondola or hall. 
 
 He glitter'd through the carnival ; 
 
And tuned the softest serenade 
 That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
 At midnight to Itahan maid. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And many deem'd her heart was won ; 
 For sought by numbers, given to none, 
 Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
 Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 
 And when the Adriatic bore 
 Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
 Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
 And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
 More constant at confessional. 
 More rare at masque and festival ; 
 Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
 Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize; 
 With listless look she seems to gaze : 
 With humbler care her form arrays; 
 Her voice less lively in the song ; 
 Her step, though light, less fleet among 
 The pairs, on whom the morning's glance 
 Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sent by the state to guard the land, 
 (Which wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
 While Sobieski tamed his pride 
 By Buda's wall and Danube's side. 
 The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
 From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 273 
 
 Miiiotti held in Corinth's towers 
 The doge's delegated powers, 
 While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
 Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
 And ere that faithless truce was broke 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
 With him his gentle daughter came ; 
 Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 What woes await on lawless love, 
 Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 
 
 The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
 And with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
 O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
 The foremost of the fierce assault. 
 The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 Of Tartar and of INTussulman, 
 The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
 And win their way with falchion's force, 
 Or pave the path with many a corse. 
 O'er which the following brave may rise, 
 Their stepphig-stone — the last who dies ! 
 
 'Tis midnight: on the mountain's brown 
 The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
 
274 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Bespangled with those isles of light, 
 
 So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining 
 
 And turn'd to earth without repining. 
 
 Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? 
 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 
 
 And scarce their foam the pebbles shook. 
 
 But murniur'd meekly as the brook. 
 
 The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
 
 The banners droop'd along their staves, 
 
 And, as they fell around them furling. 
 
 Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
 
 And that deep silence was unbroke. 
 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill. 
 
 And echo answer'd from the hill, 
 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air. 
 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain. 
 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 
 
 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet. 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown.^ 
 
 It seem'd to those within the wall 
 
 A cry prophetic of their fall : 
 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 
 With something ominous and drear. 
 
 [" And make a melancholy moan, 
 
 To mortal voice and ear unknown." — IMS.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 275 
 
 An undefined and sudden thrill, 
 Which makes the heart a moment still, 
 Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
 Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.^ 
 
 XII. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
 
 The sound was hush'd ; the prayer was o'er; 
 
 The watch was set, the night-round made, 
 
 All mandates issued and obey'd : 
 
 'Tis but another anxious night. 
 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 
 With all revenge and love can pay, 
 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 
 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. 
 
 He stood alone among the host ; 
 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 
 To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 
 
 Or risk a life with little loss. 
 
 Secure in paradise to be 
 
 By houris loved immortally : 
 
 Nor his, what burning patriots feel. 
 
 The stern exaltedness of zeal. 
 
 Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 
 
 When battling on the parent soil. 
 
 [" Which rings a deep, internal knell, 
 A visionary passing-bell." — MS.] 
 
276 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 He stood alone — a renegade 
 
 Against the country he betray'd ; 
 
 He stood alone amidst his band, 
 
 Without a trusted heart or hand : 
 
 They follow'd him, for he was brave, 
 
 And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
 
 They crouch'd 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 earn'd 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 bailed 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 : 
 
 So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 
 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey,^ 
 
 Then on the vulgar yelling press, 
 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
 The quick successive throbs convulse ; 
 
 [" As lions o'er the jackal sway 
 
 By springing dauntless on the prey ; 
 
 They follow on, and yelling press 
 
 To gorge the fragments of success." — MS.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 277 
 
 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. 
 The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
 The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
 Though oft and long beneath its weight 
 Upon his eyes had slumber sate. 
 Without or couch or canopy, 
 Except a rougher field and sky 
 Than now might yield a warrior's bed. 
 Than now along the heaven was spread. 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 Within his tent to wait for day. 
 But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
 Where thousand sleepers slrew'd the strand. 
 What pillow 'd them? and why should he 
 More wakeful than the humblest be. 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
 And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
 While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 A night of sleep, perchance their last. 
 In sickly vigil wander'd on. 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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 : 
 
 [" He vainly turn'd from side to side, 
 
 And each reposing posture tried." — MS.] 
 
278 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
 In many a winding creek and bay, 
 Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
 Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
 High and eternal, such as shone 
 Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
 Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
 It will not melt, like man, to time : 
 Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
 Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
 But that white veil, the lightest, frailest. 
 Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
 While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
 Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
 In form a peak, in height a cloud. 
 In texture like a hovering shroud, 
 Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
 As from her fond abode she fled. 
 And linger'd on the spot, where long 
 Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
 Oh ! still her step at moments falters. 
 O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
 And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
 By pointing to each glorious token : 
 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 279 
 
 And through this night, as on he wander'd, 
 And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 Who there in better cause had bled, 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim, 
 The fame that could accrue to him. 
 Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
 A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
 And led them to the lawless siege. 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd 
 Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
 They fell devoted, but undying ; 
 The very gale their names seem'd sighing ; 
 The waters murmur'd of their name ; 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
 Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
 Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain, 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river, 
 RoU'd mingling with their fame forever. 
 Despite of every yoke she bears. 
 That land is glory's still and theirs ! ^ 
 'Tis still a watchword to the earth : 
 When man would do a deed of worth 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
 So sanction'd on the tyrant's head : 
 
 * [Here follows, in MS.— 
 
 "Immortal — boundless — undecay'd — 
 Their souls the very soil pervade."] 
 
280 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 Where hfe is lost, or freedom won.^ 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
 
 And woo'd the freshness night diffused. 
 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,^ 
 
 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. 
 
 The rock unworn its base doth bare, 
 
 And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there; 
 
 And the fringe of the foam may be seen below. 
 
 On the line that it left long ages ago : 
 
 A smooth short space of yellow sand 
 
 Between it and the greener land. 
 
 He wander'd on along the beach. 
 Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
 Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not. 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? ^ 
 Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
 Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd 
 cold? 
 
 * ["Where Freedom loveliest may be won." — MS.] 
 ^ The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no per- 
 ceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 
 
 ^ [" Or would not waste on a single head 
 
 The ball on numbers better sped." — MS.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 281 
 
 I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
 
 There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
 
 Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
 
 That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
 
 Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 
 The sullen words of the sentinel. 
 
 As his measured step on the stone below 
 
 Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival,^ 
 
 Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
 
 They were too busy to bark at him ! 
 
 From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh. 
 
 As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
 
 And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,^ 
 
 As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew 
 
 dull, 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot where they 
 
 fed; 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 With those who had fallen for that night's repast.^ 
 
 * [Omit the rest of this section. — Gifford.] 
 
 ''This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath the wall 
 of the seraglio at Constantinople, in the little cavities worn by 
 the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow terrace of which projects be- 
 tween the wall and the water. I think the fact is also mentioned 
 in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies were probably those of 
 some refractory Janizaries. — ["The sensations produced by the 
 state of the weather, and leaving a comfortable cabin, were in 
 unison with the impressions which we felt when, passing under 
 the palace of the sultans, and gazing at the gloomy cypresses 
 which rise above the walls, we saw two dogs gnawing a dead 
 body." — HoBHousE.] 
 
 ^ [This passage shows the force of Lord Byron's pencil. — Jef- 
 frey.] 
 
282 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 
 
 The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
 
 Crimson and green were shawls of their wear, 
 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,^ 
 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 
 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw. 
 
 The hair was tangled rovmd his jaw : 
 
 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, 
 
 Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Alp turn'd 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,^ 
 Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.'^ 
 There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 
 For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
 And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
 
 * This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that Maho- 
 met will draw them into Paradise by it. 
 
 ^ [Than the mangled corpse in its own blood lying. — Gif- 
 
 FORD.] 
 
 3 [Strike out— 
 
 " Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain." 
 What is a "perishing dead]" — Gifford.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 283 
 
 But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead/ 
 And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
 All regarding man as their prey, 
 All rejoicing in his decay.^ 
 
 xviir. 
 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 
 Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 
 
 Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
 
 Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
 
 Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
 
 Of the things to come than the things before !^ 
 
 Out upon Time ! who forever will leave 
 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 
 O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must 
 
 be: 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
 Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay !^ 
 
 * [O'er the weltering limbs of the tombless dead. — Gifford.] 
 2 ["All that liveth on man will prey, 
 
 All rejoice in his decay, 
 All that can kindle dismay and disgust 
 Follow his frame from the bier to the dust." — MS.] 
 ^ [Omit this couplet. — Gifford.] 
 
 * [After this follows in MS. — 
 
 " Monuments that the coming age 
 Leaves to the spoil of the season's rage — 
 Till ruin makes the relics scarce, 
 Then Learning acts her solemn farce, 
 And, roaming through the marble waste, 
 Prates of beauty, art, and taste. 
 
284 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 He sate him down at a pillar's base,' 
 
 And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 
 
 Like one in dreary mushig mood, 
 
 DecUning was his attitude ; 
 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 
 Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd ; 
 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
 
 Oft his beating fingers went. 
 
 Hurriedly, as you may see 
 
 Your own run o'er the ivory key, 
 
 Ere the measured tone is taken 
 
 By the chords you would awaken. 
 
 There he sate all heavily, 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
 
 Was it the wind through some hollow stone, 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan ?^ 
 
 "That temple was more in the midst of the plain ; 
 What of that shrine did yet remain 
 
 Lay to his left "— E.] 
 
 ■• [From this all is beautiful to — 
 
 " He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there." — Gifford.] 
 ^ I must here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, re- 
 semblance of these twelve lines to a passage in an unpublished 
 poem of Mr. Coleridge, called " Christabel." It was not till 
 after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singu- 
 larly original and beautiful poem recited; and the MS. of that 
 ))roduction I never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. 
 (Joleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been 
 ■<i wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains to 
 Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen 
 years. Let me conclude to my hope that he will not longer de- 
 lay the publication of a production, of which I can only add my 
 mite of approbation to the applause of far more competent judges. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 285 
 
 He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade; 
 
 How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
 
 He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 
 
 So did the leaves on Cithseron's hill, 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
 
 What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 
 
 He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 
 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 He started up with more of fear 
 Than if an armed foe were near. 
 " God of my fathers ! what is here ? 
 Who art thou ? and wherefore sent 
 So near a hostile armament?" 
 His trembling hands refused to sign 
 The cross he deem'd no more divine : 
 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 : 
 
 — [The following are the lines in " Christabel" 'whicli Lord By- 
 ron had unintentionally imitated : 
 
 "The night is chill, the forest bare, 
 Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ] 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 That dances as often as dance it can. 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
 On the topmost twig that looks at the sky."] 
 
286 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 It was Francesca by his side, 
 
 The maid who might have been his bride I 
 
 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 enliven'd their red. 
 
 The ocean's calm witliin their view, 
 
 Beside her eye had less of blue ; 
 
 But like that cold wave it stood still, 
 
 And its glance,' though clear, was chill. 
 
 Around her form a thin robe twining, 
 
 Naught conceal'd lier bosom shining ; 
 
 Through the parting of her hair, 
 
 Floating darkly downward there, 
 
 Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 
 
 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 come from my rest to him I love best. 
 
 That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd, 
 
 I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall; 
 
 Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
 
 'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
 
 From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
 
 And the Power on high that can shield the good 
 
 Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 
 
 Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
 
 From the hand of the leaguering infidel. 
 
 * [And its thrilling glance, &c. — Gifford.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. '2S'i 
 
 I come — and if I come in vain, 
 Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 In falUng away from thy father's creed : 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 The sign of the cross, and forever be mine 
 Wring the black drop from thy heart. 
 And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 
 
 "And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
 
 In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 
 
 For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
 
 None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 
 
 Shall be left upon the morn : 
 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow 
 
 forgot. 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
 When once again I've quell 'd the pride 
 Of Venice ; and her hated race 
 Have felt the arm they would debase 
 Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
 Whom vice and envy made my foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own- 
 Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
 And shot a chillness to his heart, 
 Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
 Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold. 
 He could not loose him from its hold ; 
 But never did clasp of one so dear 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 
 
288 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 As those thin fingers, long and white, 
 
 Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 
 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 
 
 And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
 
 As he look'd on the face and beheld its hue, 
 
 So deeply changed from what he knew : 
 
 Fair but faint — without the ray 
 
 Of rnind, that made each feature play 
 
 Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
 
 And her motionless lips lay still as death. 
 
 And her words came forth without her breath. 
 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 
 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd. 
 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 
 
 With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 
 Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
 
 Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
 
 Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air,^ 
 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light. 
 
 Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 
 
 As they seem, through the dimness about to come 
 
 down 
 From the shadowy wall where their images frown ;^ 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 
 * [" Like a picture, that magic had charm'd from its frame, 
 Lifeless but life-like, and ever the same." — MS.] 
 
 ^ [In the summer of 1803, when in his sixteenth year. Lord 
 Byron, though offered a bed at Annesley, used at first to return 
 every night to sleep at Newstead ; alleging as a reason, that he 
 was afraid of the family pictures of the Chaworths ; that he fan- 
 cied " they had taken a grudge to him on account of the duel." 
 Mr. Moore thinks it may possibly have been the recollection of 
 these pictures that suggested to him these lines.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 289 
 
 " If not for love of me be given 
 
 Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
 
 Again I say — that turban tear 
 
 From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
 
 Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
 
 Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see — 
 
 Not earth — that's past — but heaven or me. 
 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 
 A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 
 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin. 
 
 And Mercy's gate may receive thee within ; 
 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 
 The curse of him thou didst forsake ; 
 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 
 Its love forever shut from thee. 
 
 There is a light cloud by the moon — ^ 
 
 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 
 
 ^ I have been told that the idea expressed in this and the five 
 following lines has been admired by those whose approbation is 
 valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original — at least not 
 mine ; it may be found much better expressed in pages 182 — 4 
 of the English version of " Vathek," (I forget the precise page 
 of the French,) a work to which I have before referred ; and 
 never recur to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. — [The 
 following address is the passage : — " ' Deluded prince !' said the 
 (ienius, addressing the Caliph, ' to whom Providence hath con- 
 fided the care of innumerable subjects; is it thus that thou ful- 
 fillest thy mission 1 Thy crimes are already completed ; and art 
 thou now hastening to thy punishment ■? Thou knowest that 
 beyond those mountains, Eblis and his accursed dives hold their 
 infernal empire ; and, seduced by a malignant phantom, thou art 
 proceeding to surrender thyself to them ! This moment is the 
 last of grace allowed thee : give back Nouronahar to her father, 
 who still retains a few sparks of life : destroy thy tower, with 
 all its abominations : drive Caratliis from thy councils : be just 
 to thy subjects : respect the ministers of the prophet : compen- 
 sate for thy impieties by an exemplary life ; and instead of squan- 
 
290 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 If, by the time its vapoury sail 
 Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
 Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
 Then God and man are both avenged ; 
 Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
 Thine immortality of ill." 
 
 Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 
 
 The sign she spake of in the sky ; 
 
 But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside, 
 
 By deep interminable pride, 
 
 This first false passion of his breast 
 
 RoU'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 
 He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 
 
 By wild words of a timid maid ! 
 
 He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 
 
 Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 
 
 No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 
 
 And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 
 
 He look'd upon it earnestly, 
 
 Without an accent of reply ; 
 
 He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 
 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
 
 And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 
 
 I am no changeling — 'tis too late : 
 
 The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
 
 Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 
 
 dering thy days in voluptuous indulgence, lament thy crimes on 
 the sepulchres of thy ancestors. Thou beholdest the clouds that 
 obscure the sun : at the instant he recovers his splendour, if thy 
 heart be not changed, the time of mercy assigned thee will be 
 past forever.' " 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 291 
 
 What Venice made me, I must be, 
 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 
 But thou art safe : oh, fly with me !" 
 
 He turn'd, but she is gone ! 
 
 Nothing is there but the column stone. 
 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ! 
 
 He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is there. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun 
 
 As if that morn were a jocund one.^ 
 
 Lightly and brightly breaks away 
 
 The morning, from her mantle gray. 
 
 And the noon will look on a sultry day.^ 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum. 
 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 
 And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne. 
 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's 
 
 hum. 
 And the clash, and the shout, "They come ! they 
 
 come !" 
 The horsetails^ are pluck'd from the ground, and 
 
 the sword 
 From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for 
 
 the word. 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
 When he breaks from the town; and none escape. 
 Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
 
 * [Leave out this couplet. — Gifford.] 
 
 ^ [Strike out — "And the noon will look on a sultry day." — G.] 
 
 ^ The horsetails, fixed upon a lance, a pasha's standard. 
 
292 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 
 Bloodstain the breach through which they pass.^ 
 
 The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
 
 Curved is each neck and flowing each mane ; 
 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit ; 
 
 The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
 
 The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
 
 And crush the wall they have crumbled before :^ 
 
 Forms in his phalanx each janizar ; 
 
 Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare. 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
 
 The khan and the pashas are all at their post ; 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
 
 A hearth in her mansions, a stone in her walls. 
 
 God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
 
 Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
 
 " There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 
 
 scale ; 
 And your hands on your sabres, and how should 
 
 ye fail ? 
 He who first downs with the red cross may crave^ 
 His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it and have!" 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear. 
 And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
 Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 
 
 1 [Omit— 
 
 " While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 
 Bloodstain tlie breach through which they pass." — Gifford. ] 
 '^ [ " And crush the walls they have shaken before." — G.] 
 3 [" He who first downs with the red cross may crave," &c. 
 What vulgarism is this ! — 
 
 " He who lowers, oi plucks down,''^ &c. — G.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 293 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 
 On the stately buffalo, 
 
 Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
 
 And hoofs that stamp and horns that gore. 
 
 He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
 
 The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die : 
 
 Thus against the wall they went. 
 
 Thus the first were backward bent ;^ 
 
 Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
 
 Strew 'd the earth like broken glass, 
 
 Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
 
 The ground whereon they moved no more : 
 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay. 
 
 Like the mower^s grass at the close of day, 
 
 When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 
 
 Such was the fall of the foremost slain.^ 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As the spring-tides, with heavy plash. 
 
 From the cliffs invading dash 
 
 Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
 
 Till white and thundering down they go, 
 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 
 On the Alpine vales below ; 
 
 Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 
 By the long and oft renew'd 
 
 Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
 
 1 [Thus against the wall they bent. 
 
 Thus the first were backward sent. — Gifford.] 
 * [Such was the fall of the foremost train. — G.] 
 
294 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
 
 Heap'd by the host of the mfidel, 
 
 Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
 
 Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
 
 Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
 
 For quarter, or for victory, 
 
 Mingle there with the volleying thunder. 
 
 Which makes the distant cities wonder 
 
 How the sounding battle goes. 
 
 If with them, or for their foes ; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice, 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 With an echo dread and new : 
 
 You might have heard it on that day, 
 
 O'er Salamis and Megara ; 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say,) 
 
 Even unto Piraeus' bay. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hilt. 
 Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 
 But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 
 And all but the after carnage done. 
 Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
 From within the plunder'd dome : 
 Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
 That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 
 But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
 Against the foe may still be found. 
 Desperate groups, of twelve or ten. 
 Make a pause, and turn again — 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 295 
 
 With banded backs against the wall, 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 
 
 There stood an old man' — his hairs were white, 
 
 But his veteran arm was full of might ; 
 
 So gallantly" bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 
 The dead before him, on that day 
 
 In a semicircle lay; 
 
 Still he combatted unwounded. 
 
 Though retreating unsurrounded. 
 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 
 Lurk'd^ beneath his corslet bright ; 
 
 But of every wound his body bore. 
 
 Each and all had been ta'en before : 
 
 Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
 
 Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
 
 And the foes whom he singly kept at bay, 
 
 Outnumber'd his thin hairs^ of silver gray. 
 
 From right to left his sabre swept: 
 
 Many an Othman mother wept 
 
 Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd* 
 
 His weapon first in Moslem gore. 
 
 Ere his years could count a score. 
 
 Of all he might have been the sire* 
 
 Who fell that day beneath his ire : 
 
 For, sonless left long years ago, 
 
 His wrath made many a childless foe ; 
 
 [There stood a man, &c. — Gifford.] 
 
 ["LurFrf" a bad word — say ^'Was hidy — G.] 
 
 [Outnumber'd his hairs, &c. — G.] 
 
 [Sons that were unborn, when he dipp'd. — G.] 
 
 [Bravo ! — this is better than King Priam's fifty sons. — G.] 
 
296 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 And since the day, when in the strait^ 
 
 His only boy had met his fate, 
 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 
 More than a human hecatomb.^ 
 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 
 Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on the 
 shore ; 
 
 What of them is left, to tell 
 
 Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ; 
 But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout ! ^ a band 
 
 Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 
 
 Their leader's nervous arm is bare. 
 
 Swifter to smite and never to spare — 
 
 Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
 
 Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
 
 Others a gaudier garb may show, 
 
 To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
 
 Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 
 
 But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
 
 Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
 
 Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
 
 * In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, between 
 the Venetians and Turks. 
 
 ^ [There can be no such thing ; but the whole of this is poor, 
 and spun out. — Gifford.] 
 
 3 [Hark to the Alia Hu ! &c.— G.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 297 
 
 Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there ! 
 
 Tliere is not a standard on that shore 
 
 So well advanced the ranks belore ; 
 
 There is not a banner in Moslem war 
 
 Will lure the Del his half so far; 
 
 It glances like a falling star ! 
 
 Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
 
 The bravest be, or late have been ;* 
 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 
 Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
 
 Or the hero, silent lying, 
 
 Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
 
 Mustering his last feeble blow 
 
 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound. 
 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect, 
 And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 " Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take. 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
 
 " Never, renegado, never ! 
 
 Though the life of thy gift would last forever. "^ 
 
 " Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride ! ^ 
 Must she too perish by thy pride ?" 
 
 ' [Omit the remainder of the section. — Gifford.] 
 2 [In the original MS. — 
 
 " Though the life of thy giving would last forever."] 
 ^ ["Where's Francesca ■? — my promised bride!" — MS.] 
 
298 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 "She is safe." — "Where? where?" — "In 
 
 heaven ; 
 From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
 Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
 As he saw Alp staggering bow 
 Before his words, as with a blow. 
 
 " Oh God ! when died she ?" — " Yesternight — 
 
 Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 
 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 
 Slaves to Maliomet and thee — 
 
 Come on !" — That challenge is in vain — 
 
 Alp's already with the slain ! 
 
 While Minotti's words were wreaking 
 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 
 Than his falchion's point had found, 
 
 Had the time allow 'd to wound. 
 
 From within the neighbouring porch 
 
 Of a long-defended church. 
 
 Where the last and desperate few 
 
 Would the failing fight renew, 
 
 The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground ; 
 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 
 That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 
 
 Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
 
 A flash like fire within his eyes 
 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 
 
 And then eternal darkness sunk 
 
 Through all the palpitating trunk ;^ 
 
 Naught of life left, save a quivering 
 
 Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 
 
 * [Here follows in MS.— 
 
 " Twice and once he roll'd a space, 
 Then lead-like lay upon his face."] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 299 
 
 They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 
 And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 
 And through his hps the hfe-blood oozed, 
 From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
 But in his pulse there was no throb, 
 Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 Heralded his way to death : 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 Unaneled he pass'd away. 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid,— 
 To the last — a renegade.^ 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fearfully the yell arose 
 
 Of his followers and his foes ; 
 
 These in joy, in fury those :^ 
 
 Then again in conflict mixing, 
 
 Clashing swords, and spears transfixing. 
 
 Interchanged the blow and thrust. 
 
 Hurling warriors in the dust. 
 
 ' [One cannot help suspecting, on longer and more mature 
 consideration, that one has been led to join in ascribing much 
 more force to the objections made against such characters as the 
 Corsair, Lara, the Giaour, Alp, &c., than belongs to them. The 
 incidents, habits, &c. are much too remote from modern and 
 European life to act as mischievous examples to others ; while, 
 under the given circumstances, the splendour of imagery, beauty, 
 and tenderness of sentiment, and extraordinary strength and 
 felicity of language, are applicable to human nature at all times, 
 and in all countries, and convey to the best faculties of the 
 reader's mind an impulse which elevates, refines, instructs, and 
 enchants, with the noblest and purest of all pleasures. — Sir E. 
 Brydges.] 
 
 ° [" These in rage, in triumph those." — MS.] 
 
300 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Street by street, and foot by foot, 
 Still Minotti dares dispute 
 The latest portion of the land 
 Left beneath his high command ; 
 With him aiding heart and hand, 
 The remnant of his gallant band. 
 Still the church is tenable, 
 Whence issued late the fated ball 
 That half avenged the city's fall, 
 When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
 Thither bending sternly back, 
 They leave before a bloody track: 
 And, with their faces to the foe. 
 Dealing wounds with every blow,^ 
 The chief, and his retreating train. 
 Join to those within the fane ; 
 There they yet may breathe a while, 
 Shelter'd by the massy pile. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host. 
 With adding ranks and raging boast. 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat. 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat; 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 Where still the Christians yielded not ; 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
 Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 
 They perforce must do or die. 
 They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
 
 * [Dealing death with every blow. — Gifford.] 
 
W't!V 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 301 
 
 Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
 
 The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 
 
 And famt the weary Christians wax 
 
 Before the still renew 'd attacks ; 
 
 And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 
 
 Still resists its iron weight, 
 
 And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 
 
 From every crevice comes the shot ; 
 
 From every shatter'd window pour 
 
 The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 
 
 But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
 
 The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
 
 It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
 
 Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
 Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
 Madonna's face upon him shone. 
 Painted in heavenly hues above. 
 With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 To fix our thoughts on things divine. 
 When pictured there, we kneeling see 
 Her, and the boy-God on her knee. 
 Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
 To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
 Still she smiled ; even now she smiles. 
 Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 
 Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
 And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
 Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
 
302 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 And still he stood, while with steel and fiame, 
 Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
 
 Their names were on the graven floor,' 
 
 But now illegible with gore ; 
 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 
 The varied marble's veins diffuse, 
 
 Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strown 
 
 With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 
 
 There were dead above, and the dead below 
 
 Lay cold in many a coffin 'd row ; 
 
 You might see them piled in sable state, 
 
 By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
 
 But war had enter'd their dark caves. 
 
 And stored along the vaulted graves 
 
 Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
 
 In masses by the fleshless dead : 
 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 
 The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
 
 To these a late form'd train now led, 
 
 Minotti's last and stern resource 
 
 Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 303 
 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
 
 And lop the already lifeless head, 
 
 And fell the statues from their niche. 
 
 And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
 
 And from each other's rude hands wrest 
 
 The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
 
 To the high altar on they go ; 
 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show !' 
 
 On its table still behold 
 
 The cup of consecrated gold ; 
 
 Massy and deep, a glittering prize. 
 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
 
 That morn it held the holy wine. 
 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
 
 Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 
 
 To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 
 
 Still a few drops within it lay ; 
 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 
 Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
 
 From the purest metal cast ; 
 
 A spoil — the richest and the last. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 
 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with the torch the train — 
 
 'Tis fired! 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
 
 The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
 
 1 [" Oh, but it made a glorious show ! ! I" Out. — Gifford.] 
 
304 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 All that of living or dead remain, 
 Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 
 
 In one wild roar expired ! 
 The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
 The waves a moment backward bent — 
 The hills that shake, although unrent. 
 
 As if an earthquake pass'd — 
 The thousand shapeless things all driven 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
 
 By that tremendous blast — 
 Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long affiicted shore :^ 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 
 All that mingled there below : 
 Many a tall and goodly man, 
 Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span. 
 When he fell to earth again 
 Like a cinder strew 'd the plain : 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
 With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
 Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
 Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
 Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
 Let their mothers see and say ! 
 When in cradled rest they lay. 
 And each nursing mother smUed 
 On the sweet sleep of her child. 
 Little deem'd she such a day 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 
 * [Strike out from " Up to the sky," &c. to "All blacken'd 
 here and reeking lay." Despicable stuff. — Giffobd.] 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 305 
 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 Could discern their offspring more ; 
 That one moment left no trace 
 More of human form or face 
 Save a scatter'd scalp or bone ; 
 And down came blazing rafters, strown 
 Around, and many a falling stone. 
 Deeply dinted in the clay, 
 All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
 All the living things that heard 
 The deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 
 The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
 And howling left the unburied dead ;^ 
 The camels from their keepers broke ; 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst his girth and tore his rein ; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
 Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
 The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
 Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
 The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,^ 
 Bay'd from afar complainingly. 
 With a mix'd and mournful sound. 
 Like crying babe, and beaten hound :^ 
 With sudden wing and ruffled breast. 
 The eagle left his rocky nest. 
 And mounted nearer to the sun. 
 The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
 
 * [Omit the next six lines. — Gifford.] 
 
 ^ I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant the 
 jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard these ani- 
 mals ; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have he?rd them by 
 hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow armies. 
 
 3 [Leave out this couplet. — Gifford.] 
 
306 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
 And made him higher soar and shriek- 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won !* 
 
 * [The " Siege of Corinth," though written, perhaps, with too 
 visible an effect, and not very well harmonized in all its parts, 
 cannot but be regarded as a magnificent composition. There is 
 less misanthropy in it than in any of the rest; and the interest is 
 made up of alternate representations of soft and solemn scenes 
 and emotions, and of the tumult, and terrors, and intoxication of 
 war. These opposite pictures are, perhaps, too violently con- 
 trasted, and, in some parts, too harshly coloured ; but they are in 
 general exquisitely designed, and executed with the utmost 
 spirit and energy. — Jeffrey.] 
 
PARISINA. 
 
[This poem, perhaps the most exquisitely versified one that 
 ever the author produced, was written in London in the autumn 
 of 1815, and published in February, 1816. Although the 
 beauties of it were universally acknowledged, and fragments of 
 its music ere long on every lip, the nature of the subject prevent- 
 ed it from being dwelt upon at much length in the critical jour- 
 nals of the time ; most of which were content to record, generally, 
 their regret that so great a poet should have permitted himself, 
 by awakening sympathy for a pair of incestuous lovers, to be- 
 come, in some sort, the apologist of their sin. An anonymous 
 writer, in " Blackwood's Magazine," seems, however, to have 
 suggested some particulars, in the execution of the stor}^ which 
 ought to be taken into consideration, before we rashly class Lord 
 Byron with those poetical offenders, who have bent their powers 
 " to divest incest of its hereditary horrors." " In Parisina," says 
 this critic, " we are scarcely permitted to have a single glance at 
 the guilt, before our attention is riveted on the punishment : we 
 have scarcely had time to condemn, within our own hearts, the 
 sinning, though injured son, when — 
 
 ' For a departing being's soul 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 
 Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
 With the block before and the guards around — 
 And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To see the son fall by the doom of the father !' 
 
 "The fatal guilt of the princess is in like manner swallowed up 
 in the dreary contemplation of her uncertain fate. We forbear 
 to think of her as an adulteress, after we have heard that '•horrid 
 voice' which is sent up to heaven at the death of her paramour — 
 
 'Whatsoe'er its end below. 
 Her life began and closed in woe.' 
 
310 P A R I S I N A. 
 
 " Not only has Lord Byron avoided all the details of this un- 
 hallowed love, he has also contrived to mingle in the very incest 
 ■which he condemns the idea of retribution; and our horror for 
 the sin of Hugo is diminished by our belief that it was brought 
 about by some strange and superhuman fatalism, to revenge the 
 ruin of Bianca. That gloom of righteous visitation, which in- 
 vests, in the old Greek tragedies, the fated house of Atreus, seems 
 here to impend with some portion of its ancient horror over the 
 line of Este. We hear, in the language of Hugo, the voice of 
 the same prophetic solemnity which announced to Agamemnon, 
 in the very moment of his triumph, the approaching and inevita- 
 ble darkness of his fate : — 
 
 ' The gather'd guilt of elder times 
 
 Shall reproduce itself in crimes ; 
 
 There is a day of vengeance still, 
 
 Linger it may — but come it will.' 
 " That awful chorus does not, unless we be greatly mistaken, 
 leave an impression oi destiny upon the mind more powerful than 
 that which rushed on the troubled spirit of Azo, when he heard 
 the speech of Hugo in his hall of judgment : — 
 
 ' Thou gavest and mayst resume my breath, 
 
 A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
 
 Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
 
 Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
 
 Her offspring's heritage of shame.' " 
 
 We shall have occasion to recur to this subject when we reach 
 our author's " Manfred." The facts on which the present poem 
 was grounded are thus given in Frizzi's History of Ferrara : — 
 
 " This turned out a calamitous year for the people of Ferrara ; 
 for there occurred a very tragical event in the court of their so- 
 vereign. Our annals, both printed and in manuscript, with the 
 exception of the unpolished and negligent work of Sardi, and one 
 other, have given the following relation of it, — from which, how- 
 ever, are rejected many details, and especially the narrative of 
 Bandelli, who wrote a century afterwards, and who does not ac- 
 cord with the contemporary historians. 
 
 " By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the marquis, 
 in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beautiful and ingenu- 
 ous youth. Parisina Malatesta, second wife of Niccolo, like the 
 generality of step-mothers, treated him with little kindness, to 
 the infinite regret of the marquis, who regarded him with fond 
 
PARIS IN A. 311 
 
 partiality. One day she asked leave of her husband to under- 
 take a certain journey, to which he consented, but upon condition 
 that Ugo should bear her company ; for he hoped by these means 
 to induce her, in the end, to lay aside the obstinate aversion 
 which she had conceived against him. And indeed his intent 
 was accomplished but too well, since, during the journey, she 
 not only divested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the op- 
 posite extreme. After their return, the marquis had no longer 
 any occasion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one 
 day that a servant of the marquis, named Zoese, or, as some call 
 him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments of Parisina, saw 
 going out from them one of her chambermaids, all terrified and 
 in tears. Asking the reason, she told him that her mistress, for 
 some slight offence, had been beating her; and, giving vent 
 to her rage, she added, that she could easily be revenged, if she 
 chose to make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted 
 between Parisina and her step-son. The servant took note of 
 the words, and related them to his master. He was astounded 
 thereat, but, scarcely believing his ears, he assured himself of 
 the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 18th of May, by looking through 
 a hole made in the ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he 
 broke into a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together 
 with Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and 
 also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, as abettors 
 of this sinful act. He ordered them to be brought to a hasty 
 trial, desiring the judges to pronounce sentence, in the accustom- 
 ed forms, upon the culprits. This sentence was death. Some 
 there were that bestirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, 
 and, amongst others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-powerful 
 with Niccolo, and also his aged and much-deserving minister 
 Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing down their 
 cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him for mercy ; adducing 
 v/hatever reasons they could suggest for sparing the offenders, 
 besides those motives of honour and decency which might per- 
 suade him to conceal from the public so scandalous a deed. But 
 his rage made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he commanded 
 that the sentence should be put into execution. 
 
 " It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly in 
 those frightful dungeons which are seen at this day beneath the 
 chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of the Lion's tower, at the 
 top of the street Giovecca, that on the night of the 21st of May 
 were beheaded, first Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he 
 
312 P A R I S I N A. 
 
 that accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the place 
 of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she was to be 
 thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, whether she was yet 
 come to the spot 1 She was told that her punishment was the 
 axe. She inquired what was become of Ugo, and received for 
 answer, that he was already dead ; at the which, sighing griev- 
 ously, she exclaimed, ' Now, then, I wish not myself to live ;' 
 and, being come to the block, she stripped herself with her own 
 hands of all her ornaments, and, wrapping a cloth round her 
 head, submitted to the fatal stroke, which terminated the cruel 
 scene. The same was done with Rangoni, who, together with 
 the others, according to two calendars in the library of St. Fran- 
 cesco, was buried in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else 
 is known respecting the women. 
 
 " The marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful night, 
 and, as he was walking backwards and forwards, inquired of the 
 captain of the castle ' if Ugo was dead yetl' who answered him, 
 ' Yes.' He then gave himself up to the most desperate lamenta- 
 tions, exclaiming, ' Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have been 
 hurried on to resolve thus against my own Ugo !' And then 
 gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had in his hand, he 
 passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, calling fre- 
 quently upon his own dear Ugo. On the following day, calling 
 to mind that it would be necessary to make public his justifica- 
 tion, seeing that the transaction could not be kept secret, he 
 ordered the narrative to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to 
 all the courts of Italy. 
 
 " On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Francesco 
 Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his reasons, that 
 stop should be put to the preparations for a tournament, which, 
 under the auspices of the marquis, and at the expense of the city 
 of Padua, was about to take place, in the square of St. Mark, in 
 order to celebrate his advancement to the ducal chair. 
 
 "The marquis, in addition to what he had already done, from 
 some unaccountable burst of vengeance, commanded that as many 
 of the married women as were well known to him to be faithless, 
 like his Parisina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst 
 others, Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of 
 the court judge, underwent this sentence, at the usual place of 
 execution ; that is to say, in the quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite 
 the present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. It cannot be told how 
 strange appeared this proceeding in a prince, who, considering 
 
PARISINA. 313 
 
 his own disposition, should, as it seemed, have been in such 
 cases most indulgent. Some, however, there were, who did not 
 fail to commend him." 
 
 The above passage of Frizzi was translated by Lord Byron, 
 and formed a closing note to the original edition of " Pari- 
 sina."] 
 
TO 
 
 SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM 
 
 IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS 
 
 AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Jununry "S^, 1816. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
 mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of 
 Brunswick." I am aware, that in modern times the 
 delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such 
 subjects unfit for the purpose of poetry. The Greek 
 dramatists, and some of the best of our old English 
 writers were of a different opinion : as Alfieri and 
 Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the Con- 
 tinent. The following extract will explain the facts 
 on which the story is founded. The name of ./^ro is 
 substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 
 
 " Under the reign of Nicholas III., Ferrara was pol- 
 hited with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of 
 an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of 
 Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Pari- 
 sina, and Hugo, his bastard son, a beautiful and va- 
 liant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by 
 the sentence of a father and husband, who published 
 his shame, and survived their execution.^ He was 
 unfortunate, if they were guilty : if they were inno- 
 cent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor is there any 
 possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the 
 last act of the justice of a parent." — Gibbon's Miscel- 
 laneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470. 
 
 * [" Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated ; but the castle 
 still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisinaand Hugo 
 were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon." — B. Letters, 
 1817.] 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 It is the hour, when from the boughs 
 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ;^ 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 And in the sky the stars are met. 
 And on the wave is deeper blue, 
 And on the leaf a browner hue, 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure, 
 Wliich follows the decline of day. 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away.* 
 
 II. 
 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 That Parisina leaves her hall, 
 
 * [The opening verses, though soft and voluptuous, are tinged 
 with the same shade of sorrow which gives character and har- 
 mony to the whole poem. — Jeffrey.] 
 
 ^ The lines contained in this section were printed and set to 
 music some time since, but belonged to the poem where they now 
 appear ; the greater part of which was composed prior to " Lara." 
 
318 PAR I SIN A. 
 
 And it IS not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 
 She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 There glides a step through the foliage thick, 
 And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats 
 
 quick. 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
 A moment more — and they shall meet — 
 'Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 And what unto them is the world beside, 
 With all its change of time and tide ? 
 Its living things — its earth and sky — 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 
 Of aught around, above, beneath; 
 As if all else had pass'd away, 
 
 They only for each other breathe ; 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that did it not decay, 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
 Of guilt, of peril do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? 
 Or thought how brief such moments last? 
 But yet — they are already past ! 
 
PARISINA. 319 
 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 
 We know such vision conies no more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The spot of guilty gladness past : 
 And though they hope, and vow, they grieve. 
 
 As if that parting were the last. 
 The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 
 
 The lip that there would cling forever, 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 
 
 The heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 Beheld her frailty from afar — 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 Yet binds them to their trystiug-place. 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 In fearful heaviness of heart, 
 With all the deep and shuddering chill 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 
 
 To covet there another's bride ; 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
 And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 A name she dare not breathe by day, 
 
 And clasps her lord unto the breast 
 Which pants for one away ; 
 
320 
 
 P A R I S I N A. 
 
 And he to that embrace awakes, 
 And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress. 
 For such as he was wont to bless ; 
 And could in very fondness weep 
 O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
 
 And listened to each broken word : 
 He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 
 
 As if the archangel's voice he heard ? 
 And well he may — a deeper doom 
 Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
 When he shall wake to sleep no more. 
 And stand the eternal throne before. 
 And well he may — his earthly peace 
 Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
 That sleeping whisper of a name 
 Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
 And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
 Sounds fearful as the breaking billow. 
 Which rolls the plank upon the shore. 
 
 And dashes on the pointed rock 
 The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 
 
 So came upon his soul the shock. 
 And whose that name ? — 'tis Hugo's — his — 
 In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! 
 'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
 He loved — his own all evil son — 
 The offspring of his wayward youth, 
 When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 
 
PARISINA. 321 
 
 The maid whose folly could confide 
 In him who made her not his bride. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 
 
 But sheath'd it ere the point was bare — 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
 He could not slay a thing so fair — 
 ^t least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
 Nay, more : — he did not wake her then, 
 But gazed upon her with a glance 
 Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
 She spake no more — but still she slumber'd — 
 While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And with the morn he sought and found. 
 In many a tale from those around. 
 The proof of all he fear'd to know, 
 Their present guilt, his future woe ; 
 The long conniving damsels seek 
 
 To save themselves, and would transfer 
 The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her 
 Concealment is no more — they speak 
 All circumstance which may compel 
 Full credence to the tale they tell : 
 And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
 Have nothing more to feel or hear. 
 
322 P A R I S I N A. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He was not one who brook'd delay : 
 
 Within the chamber of his state, 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 
 Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
 His nobles and his guards are there, — 
 Before him is the sinful pair ; 
 Both young, — and one how passing fair ! 
 With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand. 
 Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 
 
 Before a father's face ! 
 Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire. 
 And hear the sentence of his ire, 
 
 The tale of his disgrace ! 
 And yet he seems not overcome, 
 Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 
 Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
 How changed since last her speaking eye 
 
 Gkiuced gladness round the glittering room, 
 Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
 Where beauty watch'd to imitate 
 
 Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
 And gather from her air and gait 
 
 The graces of its queen : 
 Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
 A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
 A thousand swords had sheathless shone,^ 
 And made her quarrel all their own. 
 
 * [A sagacious writer gravely charges Lord Byron with para- 
 phrasing, in this passage, without acknowledgment, Mr. Burke's 
 
P A R I S I N A. 323 
 
 Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
 
 Can she command, or these obey ? 
 
 All silent and unheeding now. 
 
 With downcast eyes and knitting brow. 
 
 And folded arms, and freezing air, 
 
 And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
 
 Her knights, her dames, her court — is there 
 
 And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
 
 Had yet been couch'd before her glance. 
 
 Who — were his arm a moment free — 
 
 Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 
 
 The minion of his father's bride, — 
 
 He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
 
 Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
 
 Less for her own despair than him : 
 
 Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 
 
 Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
 
 Shining through the smoothest white 
 
 That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
 
 Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
 
 To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 
 
 Which glance so heavily, and fill. 
 
 As tear on tear grows gathering still. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And he for her had also wept. 
 
 But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
 
 well known description of the unfortunate Marie Antoinetto, 
 "Verily," says Mr. Coleridge, "there be amongst us a set of 
 critics, who seem to hold that every possible thought and image 
 is traditional ; who have no notion that there are such things as 
 fountains in the world, small as well as great; and who would 
 therefore charitably derive every rill they behold flowing from 
 a perforation made in some other man's tank."] 
 
324 PARISINA. 
 
 His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 
 
 Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
 Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 
 He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
 But yet he dared not look on her ; 
 Remembrance of the hours that were — 
 His guilt — his love — his present state — 
 His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
 His earthly, his eternal fate — 
 And hers, — oh hers ! he dared not throw 
 One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
 Else had his rising heart betray'd 
 Remorse for all the wreck it made. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 
 
 I gloried in a wife and son ; 
 That dream this morning pass'd away ; 
 
 Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
 My life must linger on alone ; 
 Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
 Who would not do as I have done : 
 Those ties are broken — not by me ; 
 
 Let that too pass ; — the doom's prepared ! 
 Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
 
 And then — thy crime's reward ! 
 Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
 
 Before its evening stars are met — 
 Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 
 
 Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
 But here, upon the earth beneath. 
 
 There is no spot where thou and I 
 Together for an hour could breathe : 
 
 Farewell ! I will not see thee die — 
 
P A R I S I N A. 325 
 
 But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head — 
 Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 
 Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
 
 Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
 
 Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
 
 And joy thee in the life I give." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And here stern Azo hid his face — 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
 The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again; 
 
 And therefore bow'd he for a space, 
 
 And pass'd his shaking hand along 
 His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 
 
 While Hugo raised his chained hands, 
 
 And for a brief delay demands 
 
 His father's ear : the silent sire 
 
 Forbids not what his words require. 
 
 " It is not that I dread the death — 
 For thou hast seen me by thy side 
 All redly through the battle ride, 
 And that not once a useless brand 
 Thy slaves have wrested from my hand 
 Hath shed more blood in cause of thine. 
 Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 
 
 Thou gavest, and mayst resume my breath, 
 A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
 Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
 Her slighted love and ruin'd name. 
 Her oiFspring's heritage of shame ; 
 
326 PARISINA. 
 
 Eut she is in the grave, where he, 
 
 Her son, thy rival, soon sliall be. 
 
 Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
 
 Shall witness for thee from the dead 
 
 How trusty and how tender were 
 
 Thy youthful love — paternai care. 
 
 'Tis true that I have done thee wrong — 
 
 But wrong for wrong: — this, deem'd thy bride, 
 The other victim of thy pride, 
 
 Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
 
 Thou sawst and covetedst her charms— 
 And with thy very crime — my birth^ 
 Thou taunted 'st me — as little worth 5 
 
 A match ignoble for her arms, 
 
 Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
 
 The lawful heirship of thy name. 
 
 Nor sit on Este's lineal throne ; 
 
 Yet, were a few short summers mine, 
 My name should more than Este's shine 
 
 With honours all my own. 
 
 I had a sword — and have a breast 
 
 That should have won as haught^ a crest 
 
 As ever waved along the line 
 
 Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
 
 Not always knightly spurs are worn 
 
 The brightest by the better born ; 
 
 And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
 
 Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
 
 When charging to the cheering cry 
 
 Of ' Este and of Victory !' 
 
 I will not plead the cause of crime. 
 
 Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
 
 1 Haught — haughty. — " Away, haiigkt man, thou art insulting 
 e." — Shakspeare. 
 
P A R I S I N A. 327 
 
 A few brief hours or days that must 
 At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
 Such maddening moments as my past, 
 They could not, and they did not, last. 
 Albeit my birth and name be base. 
 And thy nobility of race 
 Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 
 
 Yet in my lineaments they trace 
 
 Some features of my father's face, 
 And in my spirit — all of thee. 
 From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 
 From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ? — 
 From thee in all thy vigour came 
 My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
 Thou didst not give me life alone. 
 But all that made me more thine own. 
 See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
 Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
 I am no bastard in my soul. 
 For that, like thine, abhorr'd control ; 
 And for my breath, that hasty boon 
 Thou gavest and wilt resume so soon, 
 I valued it no more than thou, 
 When rose thy casque above thy brow. 
 And we, all side by side, have striven. 
 And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
 Tlie past is nothing — and at last 
 The future can but be the past ; 
 Yet would I that I then had died : 
 
 For though thou workedst my mother's ill, 
 And made thy own my destined bride, 
 
 I feel thou art my father still : 
 And harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
 'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
 
328 P A R I S I N A.. 
 
 Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
 My life begun and ends the same : 
 As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
 And thou must punish both in one. 
 My crime seems worst to human view. 
 But God must judge between us two !" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He ceased — and stood with folded arms. 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
 Of all the chiefs that there were ranked. 
 When those dull chains in meeting clank'd ; 
 
 Till Parisina's fatal charms^ 
 
 Again attracted every eye — 
 
 Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ! 
 
 1 ["I sent for ' Marmion,' because it occurred to me there 
 might be a resemblance between part of ' Parisina' and a similar 
 scene in the second canto of ' Marmion.' I fear there is, tliough 
 I never thought of it before, and could hardly wish to imitate 
 that which is inimitable. I wish you would ask Mr. Giftbrd 
 whether I ought to say any thing upon it. I had completed the 
 story on the passage from Gibbon, which indeed leads to a like 
 scene naturally, without a thought of the kind : but it comes 
 upon me not very comfortably." — Lord B. to Mr. M. Feb. 3, 
 1816. — The scene referred to is the one in which Constance de 
 Beverley appears before the conclave — 
 
 " Her look composed, and steady eye, 
 
 Bespoke a matchless constancy ; 
 , And there she stood so calm and pale, 
 That, but her breathing did not fail, 
 And motion slight of eye and head. 
 And of her bosom, warranted. 
 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks. 
 You must have thought a form of wax. 
 Wrought to the very life, was there — 
 So still she was, so pale, so fair."] 
 
PARISINA. 329 
 
 She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
 
 The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
 
 Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
 
 Not once had turn'd to either side — 
 
 Nor once did those sweet eyelids close 
 
 Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
 
 But round their orbs of deepest blue 
 
 The circling white dilated grew — 
 
 And there with glassy gaze she stood 
 
 As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
 
 But every now and then a tear 
 So large and slowly gathered slid 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
 
 It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
 
 And those who saw, it did surprise. 
 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 
 To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
 
 Was choked within her swelling throat. 
 
 Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
 
 Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
 
 It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
 
 Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
 
 And to the earth she fell like stone 
 
 Or statue from its base o'erthrown. 
 
 More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 
 
 A monument of Azo's wife, — ^ 
 
 Than her, that living guilty thing. 
 
 Whose every passion was a sting, 
 
 Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
 
 That guilt's detection and despair. 
 
 1 [The arraignment and condemnation of the guilty pair, with 
 the bold, high-toned, and yet temperate defence of the son, are 
 managed with considerable talent; and yet are less touching 
 than the mute despair of the fallen beauty, who stands in speech- 
 less agony before him. — Jeffrey.] 
 
t 
 
 330 PARISINA. 
 
 But yet she lived — and all too soon 
 
 Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 
 
 But scarce to reason — every sense 
 
 Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
 
 And each frail fibre of her brain 
 
 (As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 
 
 The erring arrow launch aside) 
 
 Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 
 
 The past a blank, the future black. 
 
 With glimpses of a dreary track, 
 
 Like lightning on the desert path, 
 
 When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
 
 She fear'd — she felt that something ill 
 
 Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
 
 That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
 
 That some one was to die — but who ? 
 
 She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 
 
 Could this be still the earth beneath, 
 
 The sky above, and men around ; 
 
 Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
 
 On one, before whose eyes each eye 
 
 Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
 
 All was confused and undefined 
 
 To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 
 
 A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
 
 And now in laughter, now in tears, 
 
 But madly still in each extreme. 
 
 She strove with that convulsive dream , 
 
 For so it seem'd on her to break : 
 
 Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ' 
 
 The convent bells are ringing. 
 But mournfully and slow; 
 
PARISINA. 331 
 
 In the gray square turret swinging, 
 
 With a deep sound, to and fro. 
 
 Heavily to the heart they go ! 
 Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
 
 The song for the dead below, 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
 For a departifig being's soul 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 Kneeling at the friar's knee : 
 Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
 With the block before and the guards around — 
 And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady. 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To see the son fall by the doom of the father ! 
 
 xvr. 
 
 It is a lovely hour as yet 
 Before the summer sun shall set, 
 Which rose upon that heavy day. 
 And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 
 And his evening beams are shed 
 Full on Hugo's fated head, 
 As his last confession pouring 
 To the monk his doom deploring 
 In penitential holiness, 
 He bends to hear his accents bless 
 With absolution such as may 
 Wipe our mortal stains away 
 
332 PARISINA. 
 
 That high sun on his head did gUsten 
 As he there did bow and Hsten — 
 And the rings of chestnut hair 
 Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
 But brighter still the beam was thrown 
 Upon the axe which near him shone 
 
 With a clear and ghastly glitter 
 
 Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
 Even the stern stood chill 'd with awe : 
 Dark the crime, and just the law — 
 Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 
 
 The parting prayers are said and over 
 
 Of that false son — and daring lover ! 
 
 His beads and sins are all recounted, 
 
 His hours to their last minute mounted— 
 
 His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 
 
 His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd ; 
 
 'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 
 
 The vest which till this moment worn — 
 
 The scarf which Parisina gave — 
 
 Must not adorn him to the grave. v 
 
 Even that must now be thrown aside. 
 
 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
 
 But no — that last indignity 
 
 Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
 
 All feelings seemingly subdued, 
 
 In deep disdain were half renew'd, 
 
 When headman's hands prepared to bind 
 
 Those eyes which would not brook such blind 
 
 As if they dared not look on death. 
 
 " No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 
 
PARISINA. 333 
 
 These hands are chain'd — but let me die 
 At least with an unshackled eye — 
 Strike :" — and as the word he said, 
 Upon the block he bow'd his head : 
 These the last accents Hugo spoke : 
 " Strike" — and flashing fell the stroke — 
 RoU'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 
 Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 
 In the dust, which each deep vein 
 Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
 His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 
 Convulsed and quick — then fix forever. 
 He died, as erring man should die, 
 
 Without display, without parade ; 
 
 Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 
 
 As not disdaining priestly aid. 
 Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
 And while before the prior kneeling. 
 His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling; 
 His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
 What were they in such an hour ? 
 No more reproach — no more despair ; 
 No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
 Save the few which from him broke. 
 When, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 
 He claim'd to die with eyes unbound. 
 His sole adieu to those around.* 
 
 ^ [The grand part of this poem is that which describes the 
 execution of the rival son; and in which, though there is no 
 pomp, either of language or of sentiment, and though every 
 thing is conceived and expressed with the utmost simplicity and 
 directness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry to which it 
 would not be easy to find many parallels. — Jeffrey.] 
 
334 PAR I SIN A. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Still as the lips that closed in death, 
 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 
 A cold electric shiver ran. 
 
 As down the deadly blow descended 
 
 On him whose life and love thus ended ; 
 
 And, with a hushing sound compress'd, 
 
 A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
 
 But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
 Beyond the blow that to the block 
 Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 
 
 Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 
 
 So madly shrill, — so passing wild ? 
 
 That, as a mother's o'er her child. 
 
 Done to death by sudden blow. 
 
 To the sky these accents go. 
 
 Like a soul's in endless woe. 
 
 Through Azo's palace lattice driven, 
 
 That horrid voice ascends to heaven. 
 
 And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
 
 But sound and sight alike are gone ! 
 
 It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
 
 In madlier accents rose despair ; 
 
 And those who heard it as it pass'd, 
 
 In mercy wish'd it were the last. 
 
 Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour. 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower. 
 Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 Her name — as if she ne'er had been- 
 
P A R T S I N A. 333 
 
 Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 
 
 Like words of wantonness or fear ; 
 
 And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 
 
 Was mention heard of wife or son ; 
 
 No tomb — no memory had they ; 
 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 
 
 At least the knight's who died that day: 
 
 Bnt Parisina's fate lies hid 
 
 Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 
 
 Whether in convent she abode, 
 
 And won to heaven her dreary road, 
 
 By blighted and remorseful years 
 
 Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 
 
 Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 
 
 For that dark love she dared to feel; 
 
 Or if, upon the moment smote. 
 
 She died by tortures less remote. 
 
 Like him she saw upon the block. 
 
 With heart that shared the headman's shock. 
 
 In quicken'd brokenness that came, 
 
 hi pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 
 
 None knew — and none can ever know ; 
 
 But whatsoe'er its end below. 
 
 Her life began and closed in woe ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 And Azo found another bride, 
 And goodly sons grew by his side ; 
 But none so lovely and so brave 
 As him who wither'd in the grave : 
 Or if they were — on his cold eye 
 Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
 Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 
 
336 PARIS IN A. 
 
 But never tear his cheek descended, 
 
 And never smile his brow unbended; 
 
 And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
 
 The intersected lines of thought; 
 
 Those furrows which the burning share 
 
 Of sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
 
 Scars of the lacerating mind 
 
 Which the soul's war doth leave behind. 
 
 He was past all mirth or woe : 
 
 Nothing more remain'd below 
 
 But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
 
 A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
 
 A heart which shunu'd itself — and yet 
 
 That would not yield — nor could forget; 
 
 Which, when it least appear'd to melt, 
 
 Intensely thought — intensely felt : 
 
 The deepest ice which ever froze 
 
 Can only o'er the surface close — 
 
 The living stream lies quick below, 
 
 And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
 
 Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 
 
 By thoughts which Nature had implanted ; 
 
 Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
 
 Howe'er our stifled tears we banish. 
 
 When, struggling as they rise to start, 
 
 We check those waters of the heart. 
 
 They are not dried — those tears unshed 
 
 But flow back to the fountain head. 
 
 And restiug in their spring more pure, 
 
 Forever in its depth endure. 
 
 Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 
 
 And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
 
 With inward starts of feeling left, 
 
 To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
 
PARISINA. 337 
 
 Without the power to fill again 
 
 The desert gap which made his pain ; 
 
 Without the hope to meet them where 
 
 United souls shall gladness share, 
 
 With all the consciousness that he 
 
 Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
 
 That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 
 
 Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
 
 The tainted branches of the tree, 
 
 If lopp'd with care, a strength may give. 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 
 
 All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
 
 But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
 
 The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
 
 The massy trunk the ruin feels. 
 
 And never more a leaf reveals.^ 
 
 * [In Parisina there is no tumult or stir. It is all sadness, and 
 pity, and terror. There is too much of horror, perhaps, in the 
 circumstances ; but the writing is beautiful throughout, and the 
 whole wrapped in a rich and redundant veil of poetry, where 
 every thing breathes the pure essence of genius and sensibility. 
 — Jeffrey.] 
 
THE 
 
 PRISONER OF CHILLON 
 
 A FABLE.i 
 
 1 [Lord Byron wrote this beautiful poem at a small inn, in 
 the little village of Ouchy, near Lausanne, where he happened, 
 in June, 1816, to be detained two days by stress of weather; 
 "thereby adding," says Moore, " one more deathless association 
 to the already immortalized localities of the lake."] 
 
SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind !^ 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 
 By Bonnivard ! May none those marks eflace ! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 * [In the first draught, the sonnet opens thus — 
 
 " Beloved goddess of the chainless mind ! 
 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
 
 Thy palace is within the freeman's heart. 
 Whose soul the love of thee alone can bind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
 Thy joy is with them still, and unconfined. 
 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
 
When this poem was composed, I was not suffi- 
 ciently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
 have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt 
 to celebrate his courage and his virtues. With some 
 account of his life I have been furnished, by the kind- 
 ness of a citizen of that republic, which is still proud 
 of the memory of a man worthy of the best age of 
 ancient freedom : — 
 
 " Francois de Bonnivard, tils de Louis de Bonnivard, originaire 
 de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496. II fit ses 
 etudes a Turin : en 1510 Jean Aime de Bonnivard, son oncle, 
 lui resigna le Prieure de St. Victor, qui aboutissait aux murs de 
 Geneve, et qui formait un benefice considerable. 
 
 " Ce grand homme — (Bonnivard merite ce titre par la force de 
 son ^me, la droiture de son cceur, la noblesse de ses intentions, 
 la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses demarches, I'eten- 
 due de ses connaissances, et la vivacite de son esprit) — ce grand 
 homme, qui excitera I'admiration de tons ceux qu'une vertu he- 
 roique peut encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive recon- 
 naissance dans les cceurs des Genevois qui aiment Geneve. Bonni- 
 vard en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis : pour assurer la 
 liberte de notre Republique, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent 
 lasienne; il oublia son repos ; il meprisa ses richesses; il ne 
 negligea rien pour aflfermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora 
 de son choix : des ce moment il la cherit comme le plus zele de 
 ses citoyens ; il la servit avec I'intrepidite d'un heros, et il ecrivit 
 son Histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un 
 patriote. 
 
 "II dit dans le commencement de son Histoire de Geneve, que, 
 des qu'il eut cummetice de lire Phistoire des nations, il se sentit en- 
 irainc par son gout pour les Hcpubliques, dont il epousa toujours 
 les interets : c'est ce gout pour la liberte qui lui fit sans doute 
 adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. 
 
 " Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annon^a hautement comme le de- 
 fenseur de Geneve contre le Due de Savoye et I'Eveque. 
 
 " En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie : Le Due 
 de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq cent hommes, 
 
344 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du Due ; il voulut se retirer a 
 Fribourg pour en eviter les suites ; mais il fut trahi par deux 
 hommes qui I'accompagnaient, et conduit par ordre du Prince a 
 Grolee, oil il resta prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etait 
 malheureux dans ses voyages : comme ses malheurs n'avaient 
 point ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il etait toujours un ennemi 
 redoutable pour ceux qui la menagaient, et par consequent il 
 devait etre expose a leurs coups. 11 fut rencontre en 1530 sur le 
 Jura par des voleurs, qui le depouillerent, et qui le mirent encore 
 entre les mains du Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans 
 le Chateau de Chillon, ou il resta sans etre interroge jusques en 
 1536; il fut alors delivre par les Bernois, qui s'einparerent du 
 Paysde Vaud. 
 
 " Bonnivard, en sortantde sa captivite, eut le plaisir de trouver 
 Geneve libre et reformee : la Republique s'empressa de lui te- 
 moigner sa reconnaissance, et de le dedommager des mauxqu'il 
 avoit soufferts ; elle le recut Bourgeois de la ville au mois de 
 Juin, 1536; elle lui donna la maison habitee autrefois par le 
 Vicaire-General, et elle lui assigna une pension de deux cent 
 ecus d'or tant qu'il sejournerait a Geneve. II fut admis dans le 
 Conseil de Deux-cent en 1537. 
 
 " Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : apres avoir travaille a 
 rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre tolerante. Bonnivard 
 engagea le Conseil a accorder aux ecclesiastiques et aux paysans 
 un terns suffisant pour examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisait ; 
 il reussit par sa douceur : on preche toujours le Christianisme 
 avec sucees quand on le preche avec charite. 
 
 "Bonnivard fut 'savant: ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la 
 bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avait bien lu les auteurs 
 classiques Latins, et qu'il avait approfondi la theologie et 
 I'histoire. Ce grand homme aimait les sciences, et il croyait 
 qu'elles pouvaient faire la gloire de Geneve ; aussi il ne negligea 
 rien pour les fixer dans cette ville naissante ; en 1551 il donna sa 
 bibliotheque au public ; elle fut le commencement de notre 
 bibliotheque publique ; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et 
 belles editions du quinzieme sieele qu'on voit dans notre collec- 
 tion. Enfin, pendant la meme annee, ce bon patriote institua la 
 Republique son heritiere, a condition qu'elle employerait ses 
 biens a entretenir le college dont on projettait la fondation. 
 
 " II parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais on ne peut 
 I'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le Necrologe depuis le 
 mois de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571." 
 
THE 
 
 PRISONER OF CHILLON.' 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 
 Nor grew it white 
 
 In a single night,^ 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 
 ^ ["I will tell you something about ' Chillon.' A Mr. De Luc, 
 ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read to him, and is pleased with 
 it — so my sister writes. He said that he was with Rousseau at 
 Chillon, and that the description is perfectly correct. But this 
 is not all; I recollected something of the name, and find the fol- 
 lowing passage in 'The Confessions,' vol. iii. p. 247, liv. viii. 
 ' De tous ces amusemens celui qui me plut davantage fut une 
 promenade autour du Lac, que je fit en bateau avec De Luc pere, 
 sa bon, ses deuxfils, et ma Therese. Nous mimes sept jours a 
 cette toumee par le plus beau temps du monde. J'en gardai le 
 vif souvenir des sites, qui m'avaient frappe a I'autre extremite 
 du Lac, et dont je fis la description quelques annees apres, dans 
 La Nouvelle Heloise.' This nonagerian, De Luc, must be one 
 of the 'deux fils.' He is in England, infirm, but still in faculty. 
 It is odd that he should have lived so long, and not wanting in 
 oddness, that he should have made this voyage with Jean Jacques, 
 and afterwards, at such an interval, read a poem by an English- 
 man (who made precisely the same circumnavigation) upon the 
 same scenery." — B. Letters, April 9, 1817. — Jean Andre de Luc, 
 F. R. S., died at Windsor, in the July following. He was born 
 in 1726, at Geneva, was the author of many geological works, 
 and corresponded with most of the learned societies of Europe.] 
 
 ^ Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted of Marie 
 Antoinette's, the wife of Louis the Sixteenth, though not in quite 
 
346 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 My limbs are bow'd, tliough not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose,^ 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I suffer'd chains and courted death ; 
 That father perish 'd at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
 We were seven — who now are one. 
 
 Six in youth, and one in age. 
 Finish 'd as they had begun. 
 
 Proud of Persecution's rage ;^ 
 One in fire, and two in field. 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd : 
 Dying as their father died. 
 For the God their foes denied ; — 
 Three were in a dungeon cast. 
 Of whom this wreck is left the las' 
 
 II. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
 There are seven columns, massy and gray. 
 Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 
 so short a period. Grief is said to have the same effect : to such, 
 and not to fear, this change in hers was to be attributed. 
 
 * [" But with the inward waste of grief." — MS. J 
 ^ [" Braving rancour — chains— and rage." — MS.] 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 347 
 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left : 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing, 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 With marks that will not wear away. 
 Till I have done with this new day. 
 Which now is painful to these eyes, 
 Which have not seen the sun so rise 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
 I lost their long and heavy score. 
 When my last brother droop'd and died. 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 III. 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
 And we were three — yet each alone ; 
 We could not move a single pace. 
 We could not see each other's face. 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 That made us strangers in our sight : 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth. 
 To hearken to each other's speech. 
 And each turn comforter to each. 
 With some new hope, or legend old. 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 
348 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Our voices took a dreary tone, 
 
 An echo of the dungeon stone, 
 
 A grating sound — not full and free. 
 As they of yore were wont to be : 
 It might be fancy — ^but to me 
 
 They never sounded like our own.^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did my best — 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, whom my father loved, 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
 For him my soul was sorely moved : 
 And truly might it be distress'd 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 For he was beautiful as day — 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles, being free) — 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 A sunset till its summer's gone, 
 
 Its sleepless summer of long light, 
 The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
 
 And thus he was as pure and bright, 
 And in his natural spirit gay. 
 With tears for naught but others' ills. 
 And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
 
 * [This picture of the first feelings of the three gallant brothers, 
 when bound apart in this living tomb, and of the gradual decay 
 of their cheery fortitude, is full of pity and agony. — Jeffrey.] 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 349 
 
 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 
 V. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy: — but not in chains to pine ; 
 His spirit wither'd with their clank, 
 
 I saw it silently decline — 
 
 And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
 But yet I forced it on to cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hills, 
 
 Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 
 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement,^ 
 Which round about the wave inthrals; 
 
 * The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens and 
 Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the Lake of Geneva. 
 On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the 
 heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret and St. 
 Gingo. Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent : below it, washing 
 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made — and like a living grave. 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were high 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, 
 French measure; within it are a range of dungeons, in which the 
 early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state, were con- 
 fined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on 
 which we were informed that the condemned were formerly exe- 
 cuted. In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being 
 half merged in the wall; in some of these are rings for the fet- 
 ters and the fettered; in the pavement the steps of Bonnivard 
 have left their traces. He was confined here several years. It 
 is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his 
 Heloise, in the rescue of one of her children by Julie from the 
 water : the shock of which, and the illness produced by the im- 
 mersion, is the cause of her death. The chateau is large, and 
 seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls are white. — 
 [" The early history of this castle," says Mr. Tennant, who went 
 over it in 1821, "is, I believe, involved in doubt. By some his- 
 torians it is said to be built in the year 1120, and according to 
 others, in the year 1236; but by whom it was built seems not to be 
 known. It is said, however, in history, that Charles the Fifth, 
 Duke of Savoy, stormed and took it in 1536 ; that he there found 
 great hidden treasures, and many wretched beings pining away 
 their lives in these frightful dungeons, amongst whom was the 
 good Bonnivard. On the pillar to which this unfortunate man 
 is said to have been chained, I observed, cut out of the stone, the 
 name of one whose beautiful poem has done much to heighten 
 the interest of this dreary spot, and will, perhaps, do more to- 
 wards rescuing from oblivion the names of ' Chillon' and ' Bon- 
 nivard,' than all the cruel sufferings which that injured man en- 
 dured within its damp and glaomy walls."] 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 351 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined, 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
 For we were used to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat, 
 Our bread was such as captive's tears 
 Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
 Since man first pent his fellow-men 
 Like brutes within an iron den ; 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died.' 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
 To rend and gnash^ my bonds in twain. 
 He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
 
 * [" But why withhold the blow ]— he died." — MS.] 
 = ["To break or bite."— MS.] 
 
352 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it wrought. 
 That even in death his freeborn breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant, 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower, 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 
 His mother's image in fair face. 
 The infant love of all his race. 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
 Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 353 
 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of Sin dehrioiis with its dread : 
 
 But these were horrors — this was woe 
 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek wliose bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 
 An eye of most transparent light. 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 
 A httle talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise, 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all tlie most ; 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 ]VIore slowly drawn, grew less and less: 
 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
 
 And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 
 
 /only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 1 only lived — /only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon dew ; 
 
 The last — the sole — the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 
 
354 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Which bound me to my faiUng race, 
 Was broken in this fatal place.^ 
 One on the earth, and one beneath — 
 My brothers — both had ceased to breathe 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 I had not strength to stir, or strive, 
 But felt that I was still alive — 
 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I could not die, 
 I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 I know not well — I never knew — 
 First came the loss of light, and air. 
 
 And then of darkness too : 
 I had no thought, no feeUng — none — 
 Among the stones I stood a stone, 
 And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
 As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
 It was not night — it was not day. 
 It was not even the dungeon-light. 
 So hateful to my heavy sight, 
 
 '■ [The gentle decay and gradual extinction of the youngest 
 
 life is the most tender and beautiful passage in the poem 
 
 Jkffrey.] 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 355 
 
 But vacancy absorbing space, 
 And fixedness — without a place ; 
 Tliere were no stars — no earth — no time — 
 No check — no change — no good — no crime- 
 But silence and a stirless breath, 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 A sea of stagnant idleness. 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again. 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise, 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track ; 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done. 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more ; 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate. 
 
356 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 And cheering from my dungeon's hrink, 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine ! 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the 
 
 while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me ; 
 But then at last away it flew, 
 And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 Lone — as the corpse within its shroud, 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 'That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 XI. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate; 
 I know not what had made them so, 
 They were inured to sights of woe; 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remahi. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 357 
 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one, 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 Avoiding only, as I trod. 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed. 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick. 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 
 For I had buried one and all, 
 Who loved me in a human shape, 
 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 
 A wider prison unto me ; 
 
 No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 
 I thought of this, and I was glad. 
 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 
 Once more, upon the mountains high, 
 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same. 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 
358 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 I saw their thousand years of snow- 
 On high — their wide long lake below/ 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then there was a little isle,^ 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
 And by it there were waters flowing. 
 And on it there were young flowers growing, 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall. 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
 And then new tears came in my eye. 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 
 1 ["1 saw them with their lake below, 
 
 And their three thousand years of snow." — MS.] 
 
 2 Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not far 
 from Chillon, is a very small island ; the only one I could perceive, 
 in my voyage round and over the lake, within its circumference. 
 It contains a few trees, (I think not above three,) and from its 
 singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 359 
 
 It was as in a new-dug grave, 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
 And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count — I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise, 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote : 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appear'd at last. 
 And all my bonds aside were cast. 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place. 
 And I, the monarch of each race, 
 Had power to kill — yet strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — ^ 
 
 ^ [Here follows in MS. — 
 
 " Nor slew I of my subjects one — 
 
 ,,., . C hath so little ? , ^, , ,.,-, 
 
 What sovereig-n < , > hath done r| 
 
 ° ^ yet so much ^ -* 
 
360 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.' 
 
 * [It has not been the purpose of Lord Byron to paint the pe- 
 culiar character of Bonnivard. The object of the poem, like that 
 of Sterne's celebrated sketch of the prisoner, is to consider capti- 
 vity in the abstract, and to mark its effects in gradually chilling 
 the mental powers as its benumbs and freezes the animal frame, 
 until the unfortunate victim becomes, as it were, a part of his 
 dungeon, and identified with his chains. This transmutation we 
 believe to be founded on fact : at least, in the Low Countries, where 
 solitude for life is substituted for capital punishments, something 
 like it may be witnessed. On particular days in the course of 
 the year, these victims of a jurisprudence which calls itself hu- 
 mane, are presented to the public eye, upon a stage erected in the 
 open market-place, apparently to prevent their guilt and their 
 punishment from being forgotten. It is scarcely possible to wit- 
 ness a sight more degrading to humanity than this exhibition:— 
 with matted hair, wild looks, and haggard features, with ej'es 
 dazzled by the unwonted light of the sun, and ears deafened and 
 astounded by the sudden exchange of the silence of a dungeon 
 for the busy hum of men, the wretches sit more like rude images 
 fashioned to a fantastic imitation of humanity, than like living 
 and reflecting beings. In the course of time we are assured they 
 generally become either madmen or idiots, as mind or matter hap- 
 pens to predominate, when the mysterious balance between them 
 is destroyed. It will readily be allowed that this singular poem 
 is more powerful than pleasing. The dungeon of Bonnivard is, 
 like that of Ugolino, a subject too dismal for even the power of 
 the painter or poet to counteract its horrors. It is the more disa- 
 greeable as affording human hope no anchor to rest upon, and 
 describing the sufferer, though a man of talents and virtues, as 
 altogether inert and powerless under his accumulated sufferings; 
 yet, as a picture, however gloomy the colouring, it may rival any 
 which Lord Byron has drawn; nor is it possible to read it 
 without a sinking of the heart, corresponding with that which 
 he describes the victim to have suffered. — Sir Walter Scott.] 
 
BEPPO: 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY 
 
Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller : Look, you lisp, and 
 wear strange suits : disable all the benefits of your own country ; 
 be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for 
 making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think 
 that you have swam in a Gondola. 
 
 Jls You Like It, act iv. sc. i. 
 
 Annotation of the Commentators. 
 That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young 
 English gentlemen of those times, and was then what Faris is 
 now — the seat of all dissoluteness. S. A. ^ 
 
 ■ ["Although I was only nine days at Venice, I saw, in that little time, more 
 liberty to sin, than lever heard tell of in the city of London in nine years. "^ 
 Roger AschamJ\ 
 
[Beppo was written at Venice, in October, 1817, and acquired 
 great popularity immediately on its publication in the May of the 
 following year. Lord Byron's letters show that he attached very 
 little importance to it at the time. He was not aware that he had 
 opened a new vein, in which his genius was destined to work 
 out some of its brightest triumphs. " I have written," he says 
 to Mr. Murray, " a poem humorous, in or after the excellent 
 manner of Mr. Whistlecraft, and founded on a Venetian anecdote 
 which amused me. It is called Beppo — the short name for Giu- 
 seppe, — that is, the Joe of the Italian Joseph. It has politics 
 and ferocity." Again — " Whistlecraft is my immediate model, 
 but Berni is the father of that kind of writing : which, I think, 
 suits our language, too, very well. We shall see by this expe- 
 riment. It will, at any rate, show that I can write cheerfully, 
 and repel the charge of monotony and mannerism." He wished 
 Mr. Murray to accept of Beppo as a free gift, or, as he chose to 
 express it, " as part of the contract for Canto Fourth of Childe 
 Harold;" adding, however, — "if it pleases, you shall have more 
 in the same mood ; for I know the Italian way of life, and, as 
 for the verse and the passions, I have them still in tolerable 
 vigour." 
 
 The Right Honourable John Hookham Frere has, then, by 
 Lord Byron's confession, the merit of having first introduced the 
 Bcrnesque style into our language; but his performance, entitled 
 " Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work, by 
 William and Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket, in Suffolk, 
 Harness and Collar Makers, intended to comprise the most inte- 
 resting particulars relating to King Arthur and his Round Table," 
 tliough it delighted all learned and elegant readers, obtained at 
 the time little notice from the public at large, and is already 
 almost forgotten. For the causes of this failure, about which 
 Mr. Rose and others have written at some length, it appears 
 needless to look further than the last sentence we have been 
 quoting from the letters of the author of the more successful 
 Bppo. Whistlecraft had the verse ; it had also the humour, the 
 wit, and even the poetry of the Italian model ; but it wanted the 
 life of actual manners, and the strength of stirring passions. 
 Mr. Frere had forgot, or was, with all his genius, unfit to profit 
 by remembering, that the poets whose style he was adopting, 
 
364 B E P P ; 
 
 always made their style appear a secondary matter. They never 
 failed to embroider their merriment on the texture of a really in- 
 teresting story. Lord Byron perceived this ; and avoiding his 
 immediate master's one fatal error, and at least equalling him in 
 the excellences which he did display, engaged at once the sym- 
 pathy of readers of every class, and became substantially the 
 founder of a new species of English poetry. 
 
 In justice to Mr. Frere, however, whose "Specimen" has long 
 been out of print, we must take this opportunity of showing how 
 com])letely, as to style and versification, he had anticipated Beppo 
 and Don .Tuan. In the introduction to his cantos, and in various 
 detached passages of mere description, he had produced precisely 
 the sort of effect at which Lord Byron aimed in what we may 
 call the secondary, or merely ornamental parts of his Comic 
 Epic. For example, this is the beginning of Whistlecraft's first 
 canto : — 
 
 " I've often wished that I could write a book. 
 Such as all English people might peruse ; 
 
 I never should regret the pains it took. 
 
 That's just the sort of fame that I should choose ; 
 
 To sail about the world like Captain Cook, 
 I'd sling a cot up for my ftvourite muse. 
 
 And we'd take verses out to Demarara, 
 
 To New South Wales, and up to Niagara. 
 
 " Poets consume exciseable commodities. 
 
 They raise the nation's spirit when victorious. 
 
 They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, 
 Making our commerce and revenue glorious ; 
 
 As an industrious and pains-taking body 'tis 
 That poets should be reckon'd meritorious : 
 
 And therefore I submissively propose 
 
 To erect one board for verse, and one for prose. 
 
 " Princes protecting sciences and art 
 
 I've often seen in copperplate and print; 
 I never saw them elsewhere, for my part. 
 
 And therefore I conclude there's nothing in't ; 
 But everybody knows the Regent's heart; 
 
 I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint; 
 Each board to have twelve members, with a seat 
 To bring them in per ann. five hundred neat : — 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 365 
 
 " From princes I descend to the nobility : 
 
 In former times all persons of high stations, 
 
 Lords, barons, and persons of gentility, 
 Paid twenty guineas for the dedications : 
 
 This practice was attended with utility ; 
 The patrons lived to future generations. 
 
 The poets lived by their industrious earning, — 
 
 So men alive and dead could live by learning. 
 
 " Then, twenty guineas was a little fortune ; 
 
 Now, Ave must starve unless the times should mend ; 
 Our poets now-a-days are deem'd importune 
 
 If their addresses are diffusely penn'd ; 
 Most fashionable authors make a short one 
 
 To their own wife, or child, or private friend. 
 To show' their independence, I suppose ; 
 And that may do for gentlemen like those. 
 
 " Lastly, the common people I beseech- 
 Dear people ! if you think my verses clever, 
 
 Preserve with care your noble parts of speech. 
 And take it as a maxim to endeavour 
 
 To talk as your good mothers used to teach, 
 And then these lines of mine may last forever , 
 
 And don't confound the language of the nation 
 
 With long-tailed words in osity and ation. 
 
 " I think that poets (whether whig or tory. 
 Whether they go to meeting or to church,) 
 
 Should study to promote their country's glory 
 With patriotic, diligent research ; 
 
 That children yet unborn may learn the story. 
 With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch: 
 
 It stands to reason — this was Homer's plan. 
 
 And we must do — like him — the best we can. 
 
 " Madoc and Marmion, and many more. 
 
 Are out in print, and most of them have sold : 
 
 Perhaps together they may make a score ; 
 Richard the First has had his story told, 
 
 But there w^ere lords and princes long before. 
 That had behaved themselves like warriors bold : 
 
 Among the rest there was the great King Arthur, 
 
 What hero's fame was ever carried farther V 
 
3G6 BEPPO: 
 
 The following description of King Arthur's Christmas at Car- 
 lisle is equally meritorious : — 
 
 " The Great King Arthur made a sumptuous feast, 
 And held his royal Christmas at Carlisle, 
 
 And thither came the vassals, most and least. 
 From every corner of this British isle; 
 
 And all were entertain'd, both man and beast, 
 According to their rank, in proper style ; 
 
 The steeds were fed and litter'd in the stable, 
 
 The ladies and the knights sat down to table. 
 
 " The bill of fare (as you may well suppose) 
 
 Was suited to those plentiful old times, 
 Before our modern luxuries arose. 
 
 With truffles and ragouts, and various crimes 
 And therefore, from the original in prose 
 
 I shall arrange the catalogue in rhymes : 
 They served up salmon, venison, and wild boars 
 By hundreds, and by dozens, and by scores. 
 
 "Hogsheads of honey, kilderkins of mustard. 
 
 Muttons, and fatted beeves, and bacon swine ; 
 
 Herons and bitterns, peacock, swan, and bustard, 
 Teal, mallard, pigeons, widgeons, and, in fine. 
 
 Plum-puddings, pancakes, apple-pies and custard : 
 And therewithal they drank good Gascon wine, 
 
 With mead, and ale, and cider of our own; 
 
 For porter, punch, and negus were not known. 
 
 " The noise and uproar of the scullery tribe. 
 
 All pilfering and scrambling in their calling, 
 
 Was past all powers of language to describe — 
 The din of manful oaths and female squalling : 
 
 The sturdy porter, huddling up his bribe. 
 
 And then at random breaking heads and bawling. 
 
 Outcries, and cries of order, and contusions, 
 
 Made a confusion beyond all confusions ; 
 
 " Beggars and vagabonds, blind, lame, and sturdy, 
 Minstrels and singers with their various airs, 
 The pipe, the tabor, and the hurdy-gurdy. 
 
 Jugglers and mountebanks with apes and bears, 
 Continued from the first day to the third day, 
 An uproar like ten thousand Smithfield fairs ; 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 367 
 
 There were wild beasts and foreign birds and creatures, 
 And Jews and foreigners with foreign features. 
 
 " All sorts of people there were seen together, 
 All sorts of characters, all sorts of dresses ; 
 
 The fool with fox's tail and peacock's feather, 
 Pilgrims and penitents, and grave burgesses ; 
 
 The country people with their coats of leather, 
 Vintners and victuallers with cans and messes , 
 
 Grooms, archers, varlets, falconers, and yeomen, 
 
 Damsels, and waiting-maids, and waiting-women 
 
 " But the profane, indelicate amours. 
 
 The vulgar, unenlighten'd conversation 
 Of minstrels, menials, courtezans, and boors, 
 
 (Although appropriate to their meaner station,"^ 
 Would certainly revolt a taste like yours ; 
 
 Therefore I shall omit the calculation 
 Of all the curses, oaths, and cuts, and stabs, 
 Occasion'd by their dice, and drink, and drabs. 
 
 " We must take care, in our poetic cruise. 
 
 And never hold a single track too long ; 
 Therefore my versatile, ingenious muse. 
 
 Takes leave of this illiterate, low-bred throng 
 Intending to present superior views, 
 
 Which to genteeler company belong. 
 And show the higher orders of society, 
 Behaving with politeness and propriety. 
 
 "And certainly they say, for fine behaving. 
 
 King Arthur's court had never had its match ; 
 
 True point of honour, without pride or braving. 
 Strict etiquette forever on the watch : 
 
 Their manners were refined and perfect — saving 
 Some modern graces, which they could not catch, 
 
 As spitting through the teeth, and driving stages. 
 
 Accomplishments reserved for distant ages. 
 
 " They look'd a manly, generous generation ; 
 
 Beard, shoulders, eyebrows, broad, and square, and thick. 
 Their accents firm and loud in conversation. 
 
 Their eyes and gestures eager, sharp, and quick, 
 Show'd them prepared, on proper provocation. 
 To give the lie, pull noses, stab, and kick ; 
 
36S BEPPO: 
 
 And for that very reason, it is said, 
 
 They were so very courteous and well-bred. 
 
 " The ladies look'd of an heroic race — 
 
 At first a general likeness struck your eye. 
 
 Tall figures, open features, oval face, 
 
 Large eyes, with ample eyebrows, areh'd and high ; 
 
 Their manners had an odd, peculiar grace, 
 Neither repulsive, afl'able, nor shy, 
 
 Majestical, reserved, and somewhat sullen; 
 
 Their dresses partly silk, and partly woollen." 
 
 The little snatches of critical quizzing introduced in Whistle- 
 craft are perfect in their way. Take, for example, this good- 
 luimoured parody on one of the most magnificent passages in 
 \V ordsworth : — 
 
 " In castles and in courts Ambition dwells, 
 
 But not in castles or in courts alone ; 
 She breathed a wish throughout those sacred cells. 
 
 For bells of larger size and louder tone ; 
 Giants abominate the sound of bells. 
 
 And soon the fierce antipathy was shown ; 
 The tinkling, and the jingling, and the clangor. 
 Roused their irrational, gigantic anger. 
 
 " Unhappy mortals ! ever blind to fate ! 
 
 Unhappy monks ! you see no danger nigh ; 
 Exulting in their sound, and size, and weight. 
 
 From morn till noon the merry peal you ply : 
 The belfry rocks, your bosoms are elate, 
 
 Your spirits with the ropes and pulleys fly ; 
 Tired, but transported, panting, pulling, hauling, 
 Ramping and stamping, overjoy'd and bawling. 
 
 " Meanwhile the solemn mountains that surrounded 
 
 The silent valley where the convent lay. 
 With tintinnabular uproar were astounded. 
 
 When the first peal burst forth at break of day : 
 Feeling their granite ears severely wounded. 
 
 They scarce knew what to think, or what to say ; 
 And (though large mountains commonly conceal 
 Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel, 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 369 
 
 "Yet) Cader-Gihhrish from his cloudy throne 
 
 To huge Lohlommon gave an intimation 
 Of this strange rumour, with an auful tone, 
 
 Thundering his deep surprise and indignation ; 
 The lesser hills, in language of their own, 
 
 Discuss'' d the topic by reverberatio?i ; 
 Discoursing with their echoes all day lo7ig. 
 
 Their only conversation was '■ding dong.''''^ 
 
 Mr. Rose has a very elegant essay on Whistlecraft, in his 
 "Thoughts and Recollections by One of the last Century," 
 which thus concludes : — 
 
 " Beppo, which had a story, and which pointed but one way, 
 met with signal and universal success; while 'The Monks and 
 the Giants' have been little appreciated by the majority of read- 
 ers. Yet those who will only laugh upon a sufficient warrant, 
 may, on analysing this bravura-poem, find legitimate matter for 
 their mirth. The want of meaning certainly cannot be objected 
 to it, with reason ; for it contains a deep substratum of sense, and 
 does not exhibit a character which has not, or might not, have 
 its parallel in nature. I remember at the time this poem was 
 published, (which was when the French monarchy seemed en- 
 dangered by the vacillating conduct of Louis XVIII., who, un- 
 der the guidance of successive ministers, was trimming between 
 the loyalists and the liberals, apparently thinking that civility 
 and conciliation was a remedy for all evils,) a friend dared me 
 to prove my assertion ; and, by way of a text, referred me to the 
 character of the crippled abbot, under whose direction, 
 
 ' The convent was all going to the devil. 
 
 While he, poor creature, thought himself beloved 
 For saying handsome things, and being civil, 
 Wheeling about as he was pull'd and shoved.' 
 
 "The obvious application of this was made by me to Louis 
 XVIII. ; and if it was not the intention of the author to designate 
 him in particular, the applicability of the passage to the then 
 state of France and her ruler, sliows, at least, the intrinsic truth 
 of tlie description. Take, in the same way, the character of Sir 
 Tristram, and we shall find its elements, if not in one, in differ- 
 ent living persons. 
 
 ' Songs, music, languages, and many a lay 
 Asturian, or Armoric, Irish, Basque, 
 
370 B E P P : 
 
 His ready memory seized and bore away ; 
 
 And ever when the ladies chose to ask, 
 Sir Tristram was prepared to sing and play, 
 
 Not like a minstrel earnest at his task, 
 But with a sportive, careless, easy style. 
 As if he seem'd to mock himself the while. 
 
 ' His ready wit, and rambling education. 
 With the congenial influence of his stars, 
 
 Had taught him all the arts of conversation, 
 All games of skill, and stratagems of wars ; 
 
 His birth, it seems, by Merlin's calculation. 
 Was under Venus, Mercury, and Mars : 
 
 His mind with all their attributes was mix'd, 
 
 And, like those planets, wandering and unfix'd." 
 
 "Who can read this description without recognising in it the 
 portraits (flattering portraits, perhaps) of two military characters 
 well known in society !" 
 
 The reader will find a copious criticism on Whistlecraft, from 
 the pen of Ugo Foscolo, in the Quarterly Review, vol. xxi.] 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout 
 All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
 
 Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
 The people take their fill of recreation, 
 
 And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
 However high their rank, or low their station. 
 
 With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing, 
 
 And other things which may be had for asking. 
 
 II. 
 
 The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
 The skies, (and the more duskily the better,) 
 
 Tiie time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
 Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 
 
 And gayely on restles tiptoe hovers. 
 
 Giggling with all the gallants who beset her; 
 
 And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming. 
 
 Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 
 
372 B E P P ; 
 
 III. 
 
 And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
 Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
 
 And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
 Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
 
 All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
 All people, as their fancies hit, may choose. 
 
 But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, — 
 
 Therefore take heed, ye freethinkers ! I charge ye ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 You'd better walk about, begirt with briers, 
 Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on 
 
 A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 
 Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
 
 They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
 Of Phlegethon with every mother's son. 
 
 Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 
 
 That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 
 
 But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
 You like, by way of doublet, cape or cloak. 
 
 Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, 
 Would rig you out in seriousness or joke : 
 
 And even in Italy such places are. 
 With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 
 
 For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 
 
 No place that's call'd "Piazza," in Great Britain.* 
 
 ^ [MS. — "For bating Coveni Garden, I can't hit on 
 A place," &c.] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 373 
 
 VI. 
 
 This feast is named the Carnival/ which being 
 Interpreted, impUes, "farewell to flesh :" 
 
 So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing, 
 Through Lent they live on fish both salt and 
 fresh. 
 
 But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
 Is more tlian I can tell, although I guess 
 
 'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting 
 
 In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes. 
 And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, 
 
 To live for forty days on ill dress'd fishes. 
 Because they have no sauces to their stews, 
 
 ^ ["The Carnival," says Mr. Rose, "though it is gayer or 
 duller according to the genius of the nations which celebrate it, 
 is, in its general character, nearly the same all over the penin- 
 sula. The beginning is like any other season ; towards the mid- 
 dle you begin to meet masques and mummers in sunshine : in 
 the last fifteen days the plot thickens ; and during the three last 
 all is hurly-burly. But to paint these, which may be almost con- 
 sidered as a separate festival, I must avail myself of the words 
 of Messrs. William and Thomas Whistlecraft, in whose ' Pro- 
 S])ectus and Specimen of an intended National work' I Und the 
 description ready-made to my hand, observing that, besides the 
 ordinary dramatis personae, 
 
 'Beggars and vagabonds, blind, lame, and sturdy, 
 
 Minstrels and singers, with their various airs, 
 Tlie pipe, the tabor, and the hurdy-gurdy, 
 
 Jugglers and mountebanks, with apes and bears, 
 Continue, from the first day to the third day, 
 
 An uproar like ten thousand Smithfield fairs.' 
 The shops are shut, all business is at a stand, and the drunken 
 cries heard at night afford a clear proof of the pleasures to which 
 
374 BEPPO: 
 
 A thing which causes many " poohs" and " pishes," 
 And several oaths (which would not suit the 
 Muse) 
 From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
 To eat their salmon, at the least with soy ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And therefore humbly I would recommend 
 " The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
 
 The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 
 Walk or ride to tiie Strand, and buy in gross 
 
 (Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
 By any means least liable to loss,) 
 
 Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
 
 Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
 And you at Rome would do as Romans do. 
 
 According to the proverb, — although no man, 
 If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
 
 If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 
 Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
 
 Dine and be d — d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 
 
 But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 
 
 these days of leisure are dedicated. These holidays may surely be 
 reckoned amongst the secondary causes which contribute to the 
 indolence of the Italian, since they reconcile this to his conscience, 
 as being of religious institution. Now there is, perhaps, no of- 
 fence which is so unproportionably punished by conscience as 
 that of indolence. With the wicked man, it is an intermittent 
 disease ; with the idle man, it is a chronic one." — Letters from 
 the North of Italy, vol. ii. p. 171.] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 375 
 
 Of all the places where the Carnival 
 Was most facetious in the days of yore, 
 
 For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball. 
 And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 
 
 Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
 Venice the bell from every city bore, — 
 
 And at the moment when I fix my story, 
 
 That sea-born city was in all her glory. 
 
 XI. 
 
 They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
 Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions 
 still ; 
 
 Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
 In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 
 
 And like so many Venuses of Titian's 
 
 (The best's at Florence* — see it, if ye will,) 
 
 They look when leaning over the balcony, 
 
 Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione,^ 
 
 * ["At Florence I remained but a day, having a hurry for Rome. 
 However, I went to the two galleries, from which one returns 
 drunk with beauty; but there are sculpture and painting, which, 
 for the first time, gave me an idea of what people mean by their 
 cant about those two most artificial of the arts. What struck me 
 most were, — the mistress of Raphael, a portrait ; the mistress 
 of Titian, a portrait ; a Venus of Titian, in the Medici gallery — 
 the Venus ; Canova's Venus, also in the other gallery," &c. — 
 Byron Letters, 1817.] 
 
 2 [" I know nothing of pictures myself, and care almost as little ; 
 hut to me there are none like the Venetian — above all, Giorgione. 
 I remember well his Judgment of Solomon, in the Mariscalchi 
 gallery in Bologna. The real mother is beautiful, exquisitely 
 beautiful." — Byron Letters, 1820.] 
 
376 B E P P : 
 
 XII. 
 
 Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 
 
 And when you to Manfrini's palace go,^ 
 That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 
 
 Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
 It may perhaps be also to your zest, 
 
 And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so : 
 'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
 And self; but such a woman ! love in life I^ 
 
 * [The following is Lord Byron's account of his visit to this 
 palace, in April, 1817. "To-day, I have been over the Manfrini 
 palace, famous for its pictures. Amongst them, there is a por- 
 trait of Ariosto, by Titian, surpassing all my anticipation of the 
 power of painting or human expression : it is the poetry of por- 
 trait, and the portrait of poetry. There was also one of some 
 learned lady centuries old, whose name I forget, hut whose 
 features must always be remembered. I never saw greater beauty, 
 or sweetness, or wisdom ; — it is the kind of face to go mad for, 
 because it cannot walk out of its frame. There is also a famous 
 dead Christ and live apostles, for which Bonaparte offered in vain 
 five thousand louis ; and of which, though it is a capo d' opera 
 of Titian, as I am no connoisseur, I say little, and thought less, 
 except of one figure in it. There are ten thousand others, and 
 some very fine Giorgiones amongst them. There is an original 
 Laura and Petrarch, very hideous both. Petrarch has not only 
 the dress, but the features and air of an old woman ; and Laura 
 looks by no means like a young one, or a pretty one. What 
 struck most in the general collection, was the extreme resemblance 
 of the style of the female faces in the mass of pictures, so many 
 centuries or generations old, to those you see and meet every day 
 among the existing Italians. The Queen of Cyprus and Gior- 
 gione's wife, particularly the latter, are Venetians as it were of 
 yesterday ; the same eyes and expression, and, to my mind, there 
 is none finer. You must recollect, however, that I know nothing 
 of painting, and that I detest it, unless it reminds me of some- 
 thing I have seen, or think it possible to see."] 
 
 '^ [This appears to be an incorrect description of the picture ; 
 as, according to Vasari and others, Giorgione never was married, 
 and died young.] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 377 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
 No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name. 
 
 But something better still, so very real, 
 
 That the sweet model must have been the same ; 
 
 A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
 Were't not impossible, besides a shame : 
 
 The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain. 
 
 You once have seen, but ne'er will see again : 
 
 XIV. 
 
 One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
 Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 
 
 And, oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
 In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 
 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree. 
 In many a nameless being we retrace. 
 
 Whose course and home we know not, nor shall know, 
 
 Like the lost Pleiad' seen no more below. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
 Venetian women were, and so they are, 
 
 Particularly seen from a balcony, 
 
 (For beauty's sometimes best set ofii" afar ;) 
 
 And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 
 
 They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 
 
 And, truth to say, they're mostly very pretty. 
 
 And rather like to show it, more's the pity ! 
 
 1 " Quas septem dici sex tamen esse solent." — Ovid. 
 
 32* 
 
378 BEPPO: 
 
 For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
 
 Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 
 Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 
 
 Who do such things because they know no better; 
 And then, God knows what mischief may arise, 
 
 When love links two young people in one fetter, 
 Vile assignations, and adulterous beds. 
 Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
 As very fair, but yet suspect in fame,^ 
 
 And to this day from Venice to Verona 
 Such matters may be probably the same. 
 
 Except that since those times was never known a 
 Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
 
 To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
 
 Because she had a "cavalier servente." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
 
 Is of a fair complexion altogether. 
 Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 
 
 Which smothers women in a bed of feather. 
 But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 
 
 When weary of the matrimonial tether, 
 
 ' [" Look lo't : 
 
 In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks 
 
 They dare not show their husbands ; their best conscience 
 
 Is — not to leave undone, but keep unknown." — Othello.'] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 379 
 
 His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
 But takes at once another, or another's.* 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Didst ever see a gondola ? For fear. 
 
 You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 
 
 'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here. 
 Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 
 
 Row'd by two rowers, each call'd "GondoUer," 
 It glides along the water looking blackly. 
 
 Just like a coffin clapp'd in a canoe, 
 
 Where none can make out what you say or do. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And up and down the long canals they go. 
 And under the Rialto^ shoot along, 
 
 ' ["Jealousy is not the order of the day in Venice, and daggers 
 are out of fashion, while duels on love matters are unknown — 
 at least, with the husbands." — Byron Letters.'] 
 
 ^ [An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, not of the 
 bridge, but of the island from which it is called ; and the Vene- 
 tians say, il ponte di Rialto, as we say Westminster bridge. In 
 that island is the exchange : and I have often walked there as on 
 classic ground. In the days of Antonio and Bassanio it was 
 second to none. " I sotto portichi," says Sansovino, writing in 
 1580, " sono ogni giorni frequentati da i mercatanti Fiorentini, 
 Genovesi, Milanesi, Spagnuoli, Turchi, e d' altre nation! diverse 
 del mondo, i quali vi concorronno in tantacopia, che questa piazza 
 e annoverata fra le prime dell' universe." It was there that the 
 Christian held discourse with the Jew ; and Shylock refers to it, 
 when he says, 
 
 " Signor Antonio, many a time and oft. 
 In the Rialto, you have rated me." 
 ' Andiamo h Rialto' — '1' ora di Rialto' — were on every tongue ; 
 and continue so to the present day. — Rogers.] 
 
380 B E P P ; 
 
 By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 
 And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
 
 They wait in their dusk livery of woe, — 
 But not to them do woeful things belong. 
 
 For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
 
 Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done. 
 
 But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 
 It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 
 
 The Carnival was at its height, and so 
 Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
 
 A certain lady went to see the show. 
 
 Her real name I know not, nor can guess. 
 
 And so we'll call her Laura, if you please. 
 
 Because it slips into my verse with ease. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
 Which certain people call a '•'■certain age^^ 
 
 Which yet the most uncertain age appears. 
 Because I never heard, nor could engage 
 
 A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears. 
 To name, define by speech, or write on page, 
 
 The period meant precisely by that word, — 
 
 Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
 Of time, and time return'd the compliment. 
 
 And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd. 
 
 She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; 
 
 A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 
 
 And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent ; 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 381 
 
 Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 
 Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
 Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 
 
 To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
 Whereas if single ladies play the fool, 
 
 (Unless within the period intervenient 
 
 A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 
 
 I don't know how they ever can get over it, 
 
 Except they manage never to discover it. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
 
 And made some voyages, too, in other seas. 
 
 And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
 (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 
 
 His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
 For thence she could discern the ship with ease 
 
 He was a merchant, trading to Aleppo, 
 
 His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 
 
 He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
 Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 
 
 Though colour'd, as it were, within a tanyard. 
 He was a person both of sense and vigour — 
 
 A better seaman never yet did man yard ; 
 
 And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, 
 
382 B E P P : 
 
 Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 
 So much so as to be thought almost invincible.^ 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But several years elapsed since they had met ; 
 
 Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
 That he had somehow blunder'd into debt. 
 
 And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
 And there were several ofFer'd any bet, 
 
 Or that he would, or that he would not come ; 
 For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
 Will back their own opinions with a wager. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, 
 
 As partings often are, or ought to be. 
 And their presentiment was quite prophetic. 
 
 That they should never more each other see, 
 (A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
 
 Which I have known occur in two or three,) 
 When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee 
 He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 
 
 ^ [" The general state of morals here is much the same as in 
 the doges' time : a woman is virtuous (according to the code) 
 M'ho limits herself to her husband and one lover ; those who have 
 two, three, or more, are a little wild ; but it is only those who 
 are indiscriminately diffuse, and form a low connection, who are 
 considered as overstepping the modesty of marriage. There is no 
 convincing a woman here, that she is in the smallest degree de- 
 viating from the rule of right or the fitness of things, in having 
 an amoroso. The great sin seems to lie in concealing it, or having 
 more than one ; that is, unless such an extension of the prerogative 
 is understood and approved of by the prior claimant." — Byron 
 Letters, 1817.] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 383 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 
 
 And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; 
 
 She almost lost all appetite for victual. 
 
 And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 
 
 She deem'd the window frames and shutters brittle 
 Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 
 
 And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
 
 With a vice husband, chiefly to protect her. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 
 If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 
 
 Till Beppo should return from his long cruise. 
 And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
 
 A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
 A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 
 
 A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality. 
 
 And in his pleasures of great liberality.^ 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And then he was a count, and then he knew 
 
 Music, and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan ; 
 
 The last not easy, be it known to you, 
 For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 
 
 He was a critic upon operas, too. 
 
 And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 
 
 And no Venetian audience could endure a 
 
 Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura !" 
 
 * [" A count of wealth inferior to his quality, 
 
 Which somewhat limited his liberality." — MS.] 
 
384 BEPPO: 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound 
 Hush'd " Academie" sigh'd in silent awe ; 
 
 The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
 For fear of some false note's detected flaw ; 
 
 The " prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound, 
 Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah !" 
 
 Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
 
 Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He patronised the Improvisatori, 
 
 Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
 Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 
 
 Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
 Italians can be, though in this their glory 
 
 JNIust surely yield the palm to that which France 
 has ; 
 In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
 And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous ; 
 
 So that no sort of female could complain. 
 Although they're now and then a little clamorous. 
 
 He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
 His heart was one of those which most enamour us, 
 
 Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
 He was a lover of the good old school, 
 Who still become more constant as they cool. 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 385 
 
 No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
 A female head, however sage and steady — 
 
 With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
 In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
 
 Nor sent, nor wrote, nor shovv'd the least concern, 
 And she had waited several years already ; 
 
 And really if a man won't let us know 
 
 That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 
 (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin) 
 
 'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
 I can't tell who first brought the custom in. 
 
 But "cavalier serventes" are quite common, 
 And no one notices nor cares a pin ; 
 
 And we may call this (not to say the worst) 
 
 A second marriage which corrupts the first. 
 
 The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo," 
 
 But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
 
 The Spaniards call the person a ^^Cortejo,''^^ 
 
 For the same mode subsists in Spain, though re- 
 cent ; 
 
 In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
 
 And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 
 
 * Cortejo is pronounced CorteAo, with an aspirate, according 
 to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there is as yet no pre- 
 cise name for in England, though the practice is as common as 
 in any tramontane country whatever. 
 
386 BEPPO: 
 
 But Heaven preserve Old England from such 
 
 courses ! 
 Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 However, I still think, with all due deference 
 To the fair single part of the creation, 
 
 That married ladies should preserve the preference 
 In tete-U-tefe or general conversation — 
 
 And this I say without peculiar reference 
 To England, France, or any other nation — 
 
 Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
 
 And being natural, naturally please. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 'Tis true, your budding miss is very charming. 
 But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
 
 So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming. 
 All giggle, blush; half pertness and half pout ; 
 
 And glancing at mamma, for fear there's harm in 
 What you, she, it, or they may be about, 
 
 The nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
 
 Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 
 
 XL. 
 
 But "cavalier servente" is the phrase 
 Used in politest circles to express 
 
 This supernumerary slave, who stays 
 Close to the lady as a part of dress. 
 
 Her word the only law which he obeys. 
 His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 387 
 
 Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
 And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 With all its sinful doings, I must say, 
 That Italy's a pleasant place to me. 
 
 Who love to see the sun shine every day, 
 
 And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
 
 Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play. 
 Or nielodrame, which people flock'd to see. 
 
 When the first act is ended by a dance. 
 
 In vineyards copied from the south of France. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 I like on autumn evenings to ride out. 
 
 Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
 
 My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 
 Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
 
 I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route. 
 Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
 
 Reeling with grapes, red wagons choke the way,- 
 
 In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 I also like to dine on becaficas, 
 
 To see the sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow. 
 Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 
 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
 But with all heaven t'himself; the day will break 
 as 
 
 Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
 
388 B E P P O : 
 
 That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
 Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
 Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
 
 And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
 
 With syllables which breathe of the sweet south, 
 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
 That not a single accent seems uncouth. 
 
 Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttu- 
 ral, 
 
 Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter 
 all. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 I like the women too, (forgive my folly,) 
 
 From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,^ 
 
 And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
 Of rays that say a thousand things at once. 
 
 To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
 But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance. 
 
 Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes. 
 
 Soft as her clime,^ and sunny as her skies.^ 
 
 1 [" From the tall peasant with her ruddy bronze." — MS.] 
 3 [" Like her own clime, all sun, and bloom, and skies." — 
 MS.] 
 
 3 ["In these lines the author rises above the usual and appro- 
 priate pitch of his composition, and is betrayed into something 
 too like enthusiasm and deep feeling for the light and fantastic 
 strain of his poetry. Neither does the fit go ofl", for he rises 
 quite into rapture in the succeeding stanza. This is, however, 
 the only slip of the kind in the whole work— the only passage 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 389 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Eve of the land which still is paradise ! 
 
 Italian beauty, didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael,' who died in thy embrace, and vies 
 
 With all we know of heaven, or can desire. 
 In what he hath bequeath'd us? — in what guise, 
 
 Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre. 
 Would loords describe thy past and present glow, 
 While yet Canova can create below ?^ 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 "England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
 I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 
 
 I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
 
 I like the government, (but that is not it ;) 
 
 I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
 
 1 like the habeas corpus, (when we've got it;) 
 I like a parliamentary debate. 
 
 Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 
 
 in which the author hetrays the secret (which might, however, 
 have been suspected) of his own genius, and his aifinity to a 
 higher order of poets than those to whom he has here been 
 pleased to hold out a model." — Jeffrey.] 
 
 ^ For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's deatli, 
 see his lives. 
 
 2 (In talking thus, the writer, more especially 
 
 Of women, would be understood to say. 
 He speaks as a spectator, not officially. 
 
 And always, reader, in a modest way ; 
 Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 
 
 Appear to have offended in this lay, 
 Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
 Would seem unfinish'd, like their untrimm'd bonnets.) 
 (Signed) Printer's Devil. 
 
 33* 
 
390 BEPPO: 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 I like the taxes, when they're not too many 
 I hke a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
 
 I Hke a beefsteak, too, as well as any ; 
 Have no objection to a pot of beer; 
 
 I like the weather, when it is not rainy. 
 That is, I like two months of every year. 
 
 And so God save the regent, church, and king ! 
 
 Which means that I like all and every thing. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Our standing army, and disbanded seamen. 
 Poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's debt, 
 
 Our little riots just to show Ave are free men, 
 Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
 
 Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. 
 All these I can forgive, and those forget. 
 
 And greatly venerate our recent glories. 
 
 And wish they were not owing to the tories. 
 
 But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 
 Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
 
 Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 
 
 And, therefore, may the reader too displease- 
 
 The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 
 And, caring little for the author's ease, 
 
 Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
 
 And hapless situation for a bard. 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 391 
 
 LI. 
 
 Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
 
 What should be easy reading ! could I scale 
 
 Parnassus, where the muses sit inditing 
 Those pretty poems never known to fail, 
 
 How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 
 A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 
 
 And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism. 
 
 Some samples of the finest orientalism. 
 
 LII. 
 
 But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
 (A broken dandy ^ lately on my travels) 
 
 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
 The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels. 
 
 And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
 Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 
 
 I've half a mind to tumble down to prose. 
 
 But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 The count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
 Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, 
 
 * ["The expressions ^blue-stocking^ and Ulandy^ may furnish 
 matter for the learning of a commentator at some future period. 
 At this moment, every English reader will understand them. 
 Our present ephemeral dandy is akin to the maccaroni of my 
 earlier days. The first of those expressions has become classi- 
 cal, by Mrs. Hannah More's poem of ' Bas-Bleu,' and the other 
 by the use of it in one of Lord Byron's poems. Though now 
 become familiar and trite, their day may not be long. 
 
 'Cadentque 
 
 Quae nunc sunt in honore vacabula.' " 
 
 Lord Glenbervie, Ricciardeito, 1823.] 
 
392 B E P P : 
 
 For half a dozen 3'^ears without estrangement ; 
 
 They had their Uttle differences, too ; 
 Those jealous whiffs, which never any change 
 meant ; 
 
 In such affairs there probably are few 
 Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 
 From sinners of high station to the rabble. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
 As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
 
 The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 
 
 Their chains so shght, 'twas not worth while to 
 break them : 
 
 The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
 The pious only wish'd " the devil take them !" 
 
 He took them not 5 he very often waits, 
 
 And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 
 Would love be ! What would youth be withou 
 love ! 
 
 Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, 
 Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 
 
 But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
 One of few things experience don't improve, 
 
 Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 
 
 Are always so preposterously jealous. 
 
 It was the Carnival, as I have said 
 
 Some six-and-thirty stanzas back, and so 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 393 
 
 Laura the usual preparations made, 
 
 Which you do Avhen your mind's made up to go 
 To-night to Mrs. Boehra's masquerade, 
 
 Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
 The only difference known between the cases 
 Is — here, we have six weeks of " varnished faces." 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 
 
 A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
 Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 
 
 Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
 With all the fashions which the last month wore, 
 
 Colour'd and silver paper leaved between 
 That and the title page, for fear the press 
 Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 
 
 Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 
 
 Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
 But that's of no importance to my strain ; 
 
 'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
 Excepting that it can't be spoil'd by rain ; 
 
 The company is "mix'd" (the phrase I quote is 
 
 As much as saying, they're below your notice ;) 
 
 LIX. 
 
 F'or a " mix'd company" implies that, save 
 
 Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 
 
394 B E P P ; 
 
 Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
 The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
 
 Of public places, where they basely brave 
 The fashionable stare of twenty score 
 
 Of well-bred persons, called '■'■The World f but I, 
 
 Although I know them, really don't know why. 
 
 This is the case in England ; at least was 
 During the dynasty of dandies,' now 
 
 Perchance succeeded by some other class 
 Of imitated imitators : — how 
 
 Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
 
 The demagogues of fasliion : all below 
 
 Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
 
 By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
 Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
 
 Stopp'd by the elements^ like a whaler, or 
 
 A blundering novice in his new French grammar ; 
 
 * [" I liked the dandies : they were always very civil to me ; 
 though, in general, they disliked literary people, and persecuted 
 and mystified Madame de Stael, Lewis, Horace Twiss, and the 
 like. The truth is, that though I gave up the business early, I 
 had a tinge of dandyism in my minority, and probably retained 
 enough of it to conciliate the great ones, at four-and-tvventy." — 
 Byron Diary, 1821.] 
 
 ^ [" When Brummell was obliged to retire to France, he knew 
 no French ; and having obtained a grammar for the purpose of 
 study, our friend Scrope Davies was asked what progress Brum- 
 mell had made in French : he responded, ' that Brummell had 
 been stopped, like Bonaparte in Russia, by the elements.'' I havo 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 395 
 
 Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
 Aud as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 
 Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 
 The more I should beheve in her divinity/ 
 
 LXII. 
 
 She rules the present, past, and all to be yet. 
 
 She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 
 
 I cannot say that she's done much for me yet ; 
 Not that I mean her bounties to disparage. 
 
 We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
 How much she'll make amends for past mis- 
 carriage ; 
 
 Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune. 
 
 Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 
 
 This story slips forever through my fingers. 
 Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 
 
 It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
 This form of verse began, I can't well break it. 
 
 But must keep time and tuue like public singers ; 
 
 put this pun into Beppo, which is ' a fair exchange and no rob- 
 bery ;' for Scrope made his fortune at several dinners (as he owned 
 himself) by repeating occasionally, as his own, some of the buf- 
 fooneries with which I had encountered him in the morning." — 
 Byron Diary, 1821.] 
 
 ^ [" Like Sylla, I have always believed that all things depend 
 upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. I am not aware of 
 any one thought or action, wortliy of being called good to myself 
 or others, which is not to be attributed to the good goddess — 
 Fortune!" — Byron Diary, 1821.] 
 
396 B E P P O ; 
 
 But if I once get through my present measure, 
 I'll take another when I am next at leisure. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto — ('tis a place 
 
 To which I mean to go myself to-morrow/ 
 
 Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 
 
 Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 
 
 Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
 
 May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 
 
 Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find. 
 
 Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
 Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips : 
 
 To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
 To some she courtesies, and to some she dips, 
 
 Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
 Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 
 
 She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 
 
 Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 One has false curls, another too much paint, 
 
 A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 
 
 A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
 A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban ? 
 
 * [In the margin of the original MS. Lord Byron has written — 
 ".Tanuary 19th, 1818. To-morrow will be a Sunday, and full 
 Ridotto."! 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 397 
 
 A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
 
 A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 
 And, lo ! an eighth appears, — " I'll see no more !" 
 For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
 Others were levelling their looks at her ; 
 
 She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of prais- 
 ing, 
 And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 
 
 The women only thought it quite amazing 
 That, at her time of life, so many were 
 
 Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 
 
 Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
 Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
 
 A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
 I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
 
 And if I were but in a gown and band, 
 Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
 
 I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
 
 Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling. 
 Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 
 
 So that her female friends, with envy broiling. 
 Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 
 
398 B E P P : 
 
 And well dress'd males still kept before her filing, 
 And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat; 
 More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 
 With pertinacity that's rather rare. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 
 
 And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
 Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 
 
 Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 
 
 Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
 They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
 Foi.u' wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 
 
 They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
 They scarcely can behold their male relations. 
 
 So that their moments do not pass so gayly 
 As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 
 
 Confinement, too, must make them look quite 
 palely ; 
 And as the Turks abhor long conversations. 
 
 Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing. 
 
 Or bathing, nursing, making love and clothing. 
 
 LXXIl. 
 
 They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 
 
 Nor write, and so they don't atfect the muse ; 
 Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 
 
 Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 399 
 
 In harems learning soon will make a pretty schism ! 
 
 But luckily these beauties are no "Blues;" 
 No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
 " That charming passage in the last new poem ;" 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
 Who, having angled all his life for fame, 
 
 And getting but a nibble at a time, 
 Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
 
 Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
 Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 
 
 The echo's echo, usher of the school 
 
 Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 
 
 The approving " Good /" (by no means good in 
 law) 
 Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 
 
 The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw. 
 Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
 
 Gorging the little fame he gets all raw. 
 Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
 And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 One hates an author that's all author^ fellows 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 
 
 So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 
 
 One don't know what to say to them, or think, 
 
400 B E P P 
 
 Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
 
 Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 
 Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 
 These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. 
 
 Lxxvr. 
 
 Of these same we see several, and of others, 
 
 Men of the world, who know the world like men, 
 
 Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, 
 Who think of something else besides the pen ; 
 
 But for the children of the "mighty mother's," 
 The would-be wits, and can't-be gentlemen, 
 
 I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 
 
 Smug coterie, and literary lady.^ 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
 Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 
 
 And one would seem to them a new inventior. 
 Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 
 
 I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
 (Though best sown projects very often reap ill) 
 
 A missionary author, just to preach 
 
 Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 No chymistry for them unfolds her gases, 
 No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 
 
 ^ [Nothing can be cleverer than this caustic little diatribe in- 
 troduced a propos of the life of Turkish ladies in their harems. — 
 Jeffrey.] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 401 
 
 No circulating library amasses 
 
 Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
 Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
 
 No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 
 They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 
 Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
 I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 
 
 And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
 I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 
 
 I fear I have a little turn for satire. 
 
 And yet methinks the older that one grows 
 
 Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 
 
 Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, milk and water ! 
 
 Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
 In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter. 
 
 Abominable man no more allays 
 His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 
 
 I love you both, and both shall have my praise 
 Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
 Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon ner, 
 Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 
 
402 B E P P : 
 
 Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honour, 
 " And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay. 
 
 Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 
 But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
 
 She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 
 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
 A turn of time at which I would advise 
 
 Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
 In any other kind of exercise. 
 
 To make their preparation for forsaking 
 The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 
 
 Because, when once the lamps and candles fail, 
 
 His blushes make them look a little pale. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 I've seen some balls and revels in my time, 
 And stay'd them over for some silly reason, 
 
 And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 
 To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
 
 And though I've seen some thousands in their prime, 
 Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
 
 I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) 
 
 Whose bloom could after dancina: dare the dawn. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The name of this Aurora I'll not mention. 
 Although I might, for she was naught to me 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 403 
 
 More than that patent work of God's invention, 
 A charming woman, whom we hke to see ; 
 
 But writing names would merit reprehension : 
 Yet if you hke to find out this fair she, 
 
 At the next London or Parisian baU 
 
 You stiU may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
 
 To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting 
 
 Among three thousand people at a ball, 
 
 To make her courtesy thought it right and fitting, 
 
 The count was at her elbow with her shawl. 
 
 And they the room were on the point of quitting. 
 
 When, lo ! those cursed gondohers had got 
 
 Just in the very place where they should not. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
 Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling. 
 
 With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
 They make a never intermitted bawling. 
 
 At home, our Bow Street gemmen keep the laws. 
 And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 
 
 But for all that, there is a deal of swearing. 
 
 And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 The count and Laura found their boat at last, 
 And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 
 
404 BEPPO; 
 
 Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
 
 The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 
 Some little scandals eke ; but all aghast 
 
 (As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 
 Sate Laura by the side of her adorer,^ 
 When, lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 " Sir," said the count, with brow exceeding grave, 
 " Your unexpected presence here will make 
 
 It necessary for myself to crave 
 
 Its import ? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
 
 I hope it is so ; and at once to waive 
 
 All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall^ 
 
 " Sir," quoth the Turk, " 'tis no mistake at all ; 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 " That lady is my wife /" Much wonder paints 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 
 
 But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
 Italian females don't do so outright ; 
 
 They only call a little on their saints. 
 
 And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 
 
 Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling 
 faces. 
 
 And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 
 
 xc. 
 
 She said, — what could she say ? Why, not a word 
 But the count courteously invited in 
 
 * [" Sate Laura with a kind of comic horror." — MS.] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 405 
 
 The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
 " Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within," 
 
 Said he ; "don't let us make ourselves absurd 
 In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
 
 For then the chief and only satisfaction 
 
 Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 
 
 xci. 
 
 They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 
 A beverage for Turks and Christians both. 
 
 Although the way they make it's not the same. 
 Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loath 
 
 To speak, cries " Beppo ! what's your pagan name ? 
 Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 
 And how came you to keep away so long ? 
 
 Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong ? 
 
 XCII. 
 
 " And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 
 
 With any other women did you wive ? 
 Is't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 
 
 Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive ! 
 You'll give it me ? They say you eat no pork? 
 
 And how so many years did you contrive 
 To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I never 
 Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver? 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 " Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 
 
 It shall be shaved before you're a day older: 
 Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 
 
 Pray don't you think the weather here is colder ? 
 
406 B E P P : 
 
 How do I look ? You sha'n't stir from this spot 
 
 In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
 Should find you out, and make the story known. 
 How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it's 
 
 grown !" 
 
 xciv. 
 
 What answer Beppo made to these demands 
 Is more than I know. He was cast away 
 
 About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands; 
 Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
 
 Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
 Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 
 
 He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 
 
 A renegado of indifferent fame. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
 Keen the desire to see his home again. 
 
 He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
 And not be always thieving on the main ; 
 
 Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
 And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
 
 Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 
 
 Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten !) 
 cash. 
 
 He then embark'd with risk of life and limb. 
 And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
 
 He said that Providence protected him — 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 407 
 
 For my part, I say nothing — lest we clash 
 
 In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 
 Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on. 
 Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading, 
 And self and live stock to another bottom, 
 
 And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading 
 With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em. 
 
 However, he got off by this evading. 
 
 Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 
 
 And thus at Venice^ landed to reclaim 
 
 His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 
 
 * [" You ask me," says Lord Byron, in a letter written in 
 1820, "for a volume of manners, &c. on Italy. Perhaps I am 
 in the case to know more of them than most Englishmen, because 
 I have lived among the natives, and in parts of the country where 
 Englishmen never resided before; (I speak of Romagna and this 
 place particularly;) but there are many reasons why I do not 
 choose to treat in print on such a subject. Their moral is not 
 your moral ; their life is not your life ; you would not understand 
 it : it is not English, nor French, nor German, which you would 
 all understand. The conventual education, the cavalier servitude, 
 the habits of thought and living, are so entirely different, and the 
 difference becomes so much more striking the more you live in- 
 timately with them, that I know not how to make you compre- 
 hend a people who are at once temperate and profligate, serious 
 in their characters and buffoons in their amusements, capable of 
 impressions and passions, which are at once sudden and durable, 
 (what you find in no other nation,) and who actually have no 
 society, (what we would call so,) as you may see by their come- 
 dies ; they have no real comedy, not even in Goldoni, and that 
 is because they have no society to draw it from. Their conversa- 
 zioni are not society at all. They go to the theatre to talk, and 
 into company to hold their tongues. The women sit in a circle, 
 and the men gather into groups, or they play at dreary faro, or 
 ' lotto reale,' for small sums. Their academie are concerts like 
 
408 B E P P 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
 (He made the church a present, by the way ;) 
 
 He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 
 And borrow'd the count's smallclothes for a day : 
 
 His friends the more for his long absence prized him. 
 Poinding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, 
 
 With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of 
 them, 
 
 For stories — but / don't believe the half of them. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Whate'er his youth had sufler'd, his old age 
 
 With wealth and talking made him some amends ; 
 
 Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
 
 I've heard the count and he were always friends. 
 
 our own, with better music and more form. Their best things 
 are the carnival balls and masquerades, when everybody runs 
 mad for six weeks. After their dinners and suppers they make 
 extempore verses and buffoon one another : but it is a humour 
 which you would not enter into, ye of the north. — In their houses 
 it is better. As for the women, from the fisherman's wife up to 
 the nobil dama, their system has its rules, and its fitnesses, and 
 its decorums, so as to be reduced to a kind of discipline or game 
 at hearts, which admits few deviations, unless you wish to lose 
 it. They are extremely tenacious, and jealous as furies, not per- 
 mitting their lovers even to marry if they can help it, and keep- 
 ing them always close to them in public as in private, whenever 
 they can. In short they transfer marriage to adultery, and strike 
 the not out of that commandment. The reason is, that they marry 
 for their parents, and love for themselves. They exact fidelity 
 from a lover as a debt of honour, while they pay the husband as 
 a tradesman, that is, not at all. You hear a person's character, 
 male or female, canvassed not as depending on their conduct to 
 their husbands or wives, but to their mistress or lover. If I 
 wrote a quarto, I don't know that I could do more than amplify 
 what I have here noted.] 
 
A VENETIAN STORY. 409 
 
 My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
 
 Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 
 'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
 But stories somehow lengthen when begun.^ 
 
 ^ [This extremely clever and amusing- performance affords a 
 very curious and complete specimen of a kind of diction and 
 composition of which our English literature has hitherto pre- 
 sented very few examples. It is, in itself, absolutely a thing- of 
 nothing — without story, characters, sentiments, or intelligible 
 object; — a mere piece of lively and loquacious prattling, in short, 
 upon all kinds of frivolous subjects, — a sort of gay and desultory 
 babbling about Italy and England, Turks, balls, literature, and 
 fish sauces. But still there is something very engaging in the 
 uniform gayety, politeness, and good-humour of the author, and 
 something still more striking and admirable in the matchless 
 facility with which he has cast into regular, and even difficult, 
 versification the unmingled, unconstrained, and unselected lan- 
 guage of the most light, familiar, and ordinary conversation. 
 With great skill and felicity, he has furnished us with an ex- 
 ample of about one hundred stanzas of good verse, entirely com- 
 posed of common words, in their common places ; never pre- 
 senting us with one sprig of what is called poetical diction, or 
 even making use of a single inversion, either to raise the style 
 or assist the rhyme — but running on in an inexhaustible series of 
 good easy colloquial phrases, and finding them fall into verse by 
 some unaccountable and happy fatality. In this great and 
 characteristic quality it is almost invariably excellent. In some 
 other respects, it is more unequal. About one-half is as good as 
 possible, in the style to which it belongs ; the other half bears, 
 perhaps, too many marks of that haste with which such a work 
 must necessarily be written. Some passages are rather too 
 snappish, some run too much on the cheap and rather plebeian 
 humour of out-of-the-way rhymes, and strange-sounding words 
 and epithets. But the greater part is extremely pleasant, amiable, 
 and gentlemanlike. — Jeffrey.] 
 
 35 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
[The following "lively, spirited, and pleasant tale," as Mr. 
 Gilford calls it, on the margin of the MS., was written in the 
 autumn of 1818, at Ravenna. We extract the following from a 
 reviewal of the time. — " Mazeppa is a very fine and spirited 
 sketch of a very noble story, and is every way worthy of its 
 autiior. The story is a well-known one ; namely, that of the 
 young Pole, who, being bound naked on the back of a wild horse, 
 on account of an intrigue with the lady of a certain great noble 
 of his country, was carried by his steed into the heart of the 
 Ukraine, and being there picked up by some Cossacks, in a state 
 apparently of utter hopelessness and exhaustion, recovered, and 
 lived to be long after the prince and leader of the nation among 
 whom he had arrived in this extraordinary manner. Lord Byron 
 has represented the strange and wild incidents of this adventure, 
 as being related in a half serious, half sportive way, by Mazeppa 
 himself, to no less a person than Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, 
 in some of whose last ceimpaigns the Cossack Hetman took a 
 distinguished part. He tells it during the desolate bivouack of 
 Charles and the few friends who fled with him towards Turkey, 
 after the bloody overthrow of Pultowa. There is not a little of 
 beauty and gracefulness in this way of setting the picture ; — the 
 age of Mazeppa — the calm, practised indifference with which he 
 now submits to the worst of fortune's deeds — the heroic, unthink- 
 ing coldness of the royal madman to whom he speaks — the dreary 
 and perilous accompaniments of the scene around the speaker 
 and the audience — all contribute to throw a very striking charm 
 both of preparation and of contrast over the wild story of the 
 Hetman. Nothing can be more beautiful, in like manner, than 
 the account of the love — the guilty love — the fruits of which had 
 been so miraculous."] 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 " Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un 
 geiitilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le 
 palatinat de Podolie : il avait ete eleve page de Jean 
 Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des 
 belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse 
 avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant ete 
 decouverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval fa- 
 rouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui etait 
 du pays de l'Ul(Taine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, 
 demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le 
 secoururent : il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala 
 dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supe- 
 riorite de ses lumieres lui donna une grande conside- 
 ration parmi les Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant 
 de jour en jour, obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de 
 I'Ukraine." — Voltairb, Hisf.de Charles XII. p. 196. 
 
 " Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue 
 sous lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son 
 sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a 
 cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y 
 monter pendant la bataille," — P. 216. 
 
 " Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques 
 cavaliers, Le carrosse, ou il 6tait, rompit dans la 
 
114 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 marche ; on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de dis- 
 grace, ils'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son 
 courage ne pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees, 
 les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupporta- 
 bles par la fatigue, son cheval etant tonibe de lassi- 
 tude, il sc concha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, 
 en danger d'etre surpris a tout moment par les vain- 
 queurs, qui le cherchaient de tous cotes." — P. 218.^ 
 
 ^ [For some authentic and interesting particulars concerning 
 the Hetman Mazeppa, see Sir John Barrow's " iJfemozV o/" i/te 
 Life of Peter the Great:''] 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 'TwAS after dread Pultowa's day, 
 
 When fortune left the royal Swede, 
 Around a slaughter'd army lay, 
 
 No more to combat and to bleed. 
 The power and glory of the war. 
 
 Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
 Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 
 
 And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
 Until a day more dark and drear, 
 And a more memorable year, 
 Should give to slaughter and to shame 
 A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
 A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
 A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 
 
 II. 
 
 Such was the hazard of the die ; 
 The wounded Charles was taught to t!y 
 By day and night through field and flood, 
 Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 
 
416 MAZEPPA. 
 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
 
 And not a voice was heard to upbraid 
 
 Ambition in his humbled hour, 
 
 When truth had naught to dread from power. 
 
 His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
 
 His own — and died the Russian's slave. 
 
 This too sinks after many a league 
 
 Of well sustain'd, but vain fatigue ; 
 
 And in the depth of forests, darkling 
 
 The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 
 
 The beacons of surrounding foes — 
 A king must lay his limbs at length. 
 
 Are these the laurels and repose 
 For which the nations strain their strength? 
 They laid him by a savage tree, 
 In outworn nature's agony ; 
 His wounds were stifl' — his limbs were stark-- 
 The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
 The fever in his blood forbade 
 A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
 And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
 Kinglike the monarch bore his fall. 
 And made, in this extreme of ill, 
 His pangs the vassals of his will : 
 All silent and subdued were they, 
 As once the nations round him lay. 
 
 III. 
 
 A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 
 Since but the fleeting of a day 
 
 Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 
 And chivalrous : upon the clay 
 
 Each sate him down, all sad and mute. 
 Beside his monarch and his steed. 
 
MAZEPPA. 417 
 
 For danger levels man and brute, 
 
 And all are fellows in their need. 
 Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
 His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
 Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
 The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold ; 
 But first, outspent with this long course. 
 The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse. 
 And made for him a leafy bed. 
 
 And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
 For until now he had the dread 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 To browse beneath the midnight dews ; 
 But he was hardy as his lord. 
 And little cared for bed and board ; 
 But spirited and docile too ; 
 Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb. 
 All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
 Obey'd his voice, and came to call. 
 And knew him in the midst of all : 
 Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
 Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
 That steed from sunset until dawn 
 His chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak. 
 
 And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
 
 Felt if his arms in order good 
 
 The long day's march had well withstood — 
 
418 MAZEPPA. 
 
 If still the powder fill'd the pan, 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
 And whether they had chafed his belt — 
 And next the venerable man, 
 From out his haversack and can. 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 The whole or portion offer'd then 
 With far less of inquietude 
 Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
 And Charles of this his slender share 
 With smiles partook a moment there, 
 To force of cheer a greater show, 
 And seem above both wounds and woe ; — 
 And then he said — " Of all our band, 
 Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
 In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
 Can less have said or more have done 
 Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
 So fit a pair had never birth. 
 Since Alexander's days till now, 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
 All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
 For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
 Mazeppa answer'd — " 111 betide 
 The school wherein I learn'd to ride !" 
 Quoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore so, 
 Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ?" 
 Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell ; 
 And we have many a league to go, 
 With every now and then a blow, 
 And ten to one at least the foe, 
 Before our steeds may graze at ease, 
 Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
 
MAZE P PA. 419 
 
 And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
 And I will be the sentinel 
 Of this your troop." — "But I request," 
 Said Sweden's monarch, "Thou wilt tell 
 This tale of thme, and I may reap, 
 Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 The hope of present shimber flies." 
 
 "Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
 Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
 John Casimir, I was his page 
 Six summers, in my earlier age : 
 A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
 And most unlike your majesty ; 
 He made no wars, and did not gain 
 New realms to lose them back again ; 
 And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
 He reign'd in most unseemly quiet ; 
 Not that he had no cares to vex, 
 He loved the muses and the sex ; 
 And sometimes these so fro ward are, 
 They made him wish himself at war ; 
 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
 Another mistress, or new book : 
 And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
 All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
 To gaze upon his splendid court, 
 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port: 
 He was the Polish Solomon, 
 So sung his poets, all but one. 
 
420 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
 And boasted that he could not flatter. 
 It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
 Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
 Even I for once produced some verses, 
 And sign'd my odes ' Despairing Thyrsis.' 
 There was a certain Palatine, 
 
 A count of far and high descent, 
 Rich as a salt or silver mine ;^ 
 And he was proud, ye may divine, 
 
 As if from heaven he had been sent : 
 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 
 As few could match beneath the throne ; 
 And he would gaze upon his store. 
 And o'er his pedigree would pore. 
 Until by some confusion led. 
 Which almost look'd like want of head. 
 
 He thought their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion — 
 
 His junior she by thirty years — 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
 
 And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 
 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 At Warsaw's youth, some songs and dances 
 Awaited but the usual chances. 
 Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender. 
 To deck her count with titles given, 
 'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 Of these, who have deserved them most. 
 
 * This comparison of a '■'■salt mine" may, perhaps, be permit- 
 ted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country consists ^eatly in the 
 salt mines 
 
M A Z E P P A. 421 
 
 " I was a goodly stripling then ; 
 
 At seventy years I so may say, 
 That there were few or boys or men, 
 
 Who, in my dawning time of day, 
 Of vassal, or of knights degree. 
 Could vie in vanities with me ; 
 For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
 A port not like to this ye see, 
 But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 
 
 For time, and care, and war have plough'd 
 My very soul from out my brow ; 
 
 And thus I should be disavow 'd 
 By all my kind and kin, could they 
 Compare my day and yesterday ; 
 This change was wrought too long ere age 
 Had ta'en my features for his page : 
 With years, ye know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, nor my mind, 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales beneath a tree. 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 
 But let me on : Theresa's form — 
 Methinks it glides before me now, 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
 
 The memory is so quick and warm ; 
 And yet I find no words to tell 
 The shape of her I loved so well : 
 She had the Asiatic eye, 
 
 Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 
 
 Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
 Dark as above us is the sky ; 
 
422 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 But through it stole a tender light, 
 Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
 Large, dark, and swimming in the stream. 
 Which seem'd to melt to its own beam, 
 All love, half languor, and half fire, 
 Like saints that at the stake expire. 
 And lift their raptured looks on high, 
 As though it were a joy to die.^ 
 A brow like a midsummer lake. 
 
 Transparent with the sun therein, 
 When waves no murmurs dare to make. 
 
 And heaven beholds her face within. 
 A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 
 
 I loved her then, I love her still ; 
 And such as I am, love indeed 
 
 In fierce extremes — in good and ill 
 But still we love even in our rage. 
 And haunted to our very age 
 With the vain shadow of the past. 
 As is Mazeppa to the last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
 
 She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 
 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 
 Involuntary sparks of thought. 
 
 Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought. 
 
 And form a strange inteUigence, 
 
 Alike mysterious and intense, 
 
 Which Unk the burning chain that binds, 
 
 Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 
 
 * ["Until it proves a joy to die." — MS.] 
 
MAZEPPA. 423 
 
 Conveying, as the electric wire, 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire.- 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
 And still reluctant distance kept. 
 Until I was made known to her. 
 And we might then and there confer 
 Without suspicion — then, even then 
 
 I long'd, and was resolved to speak 
 But on my lips they died again, 
 
 The accents tremulous and weak, 
 Until one hour. — There is a game, 
 
 A frivolous and foolish play. 
 
 Wherewith we while away the day ; 
 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 And we to this, it seems, were set. 
 By some strange chance, which I forget . 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost. 
 
 It was enough for me to be 
 
 So near to her, and, oh ! to see 
 The being whom I loved the most. — 
 I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
 (May ours this dark night watch as well !) 
 
 Until I saw, and thus it was. 
 That she was pensive, nor perceived 
 Her occupation, nor was grieved 
 Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
 Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
 Yet bound her to the place, though not 
 That hers might be the winning lot.'^ 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did 
 pass. 
 
 [ " but not 
 
 For that which we had both forgot." — MS.] 
 
424 MAZEPPA. 
 
 Even as a flash of lightning there, 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom me to despair ; 
 And on the thought my words broke forth 
 
 All incoherent as they were — 
 Their eloquence was little worth, 
 But yet she listen'd — 'tis enough — 
 
 Who listens once will listen twice . 
 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
 And one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I loved, and was beloved again — 
 They tell me, sire, you never knew 
 Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 
 
 I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
 
 To you 'twould seem absurd as vain , 
 
 But all men are not born to reign. 
 
 Or o'er their passions, or as you 
 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 
 I am — or rather was — a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 
 Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 
 The like control — But to resume : 
 I loved, and was beloved again ; 
 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
 
 But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
 
 We met in secret, and the hour 
 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 
 Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
 
 My days and nights were nothing — arJ 
 
 Except that hour which doth recall 
 
M A Z E P P A. 425 
 
 111 the long lapse from youth to age 
 No other like itself — I'd give 
 The Ukraine back again to live 
 It o'er once more — and be a page, 
 The happy page, who was the lord 
 Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
 And had no other gem nor wealth 
 Save nature's gift of youth and health. 
 We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
 Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 My life but to have call'd her mine 
 In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only meet by stealth. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " For lovers there are many eyes, 
 
 And such there were on us ; — the devil 
 On such occasions should be civil — 
 
 The devil? — I'm loath to do him wrong. 
 It might be some untoward saint. 
 
 Who would not be at rest too long. 
 But to his pious bile gave vent — 
 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 
 Surprised and seized us both. 
 
 The count was something more than wroth- 
 
 I was unarm'd ; but if in steel. 
 
 All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
 
 What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — ■ 
 
 'Twas near his castle, far away 
 From city or from succour near, 
 
 And almost on the break of day; 
 
426 MAZEPPA. 
 
 I did not think to see another, 
 
 My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
 
 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
 And, it may be, a saint or two, 
 
 As I resign'd me to my fate, 
 
 They led me to the castle gate : 
 Theresa's doom I never knew. 
 
 Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
 
 An angry man, ye may opine, 
 
 Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
 
 And he had reason good to be; 
 But he was most enraged lest such 
 An accident should chance to touch 
 
 Upon his future pedigree ; 
 
 Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
 
 His noble 'scutcheon should have got. 
 
 While he was highest of his line ; 
 Because unto himself he seem'd 
 The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
 
 In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 
 'Sdeath ! with n. page — perchance a king 
 
 Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
 
 But with a stripling of a page — 
 
 I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "'Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was brought; 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
 
M A Z E P P A. 427 
 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led : 
 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 "Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 
 And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 
 The last of human sounds which rose. 
 As I was darted from my foes. 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter. 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout : 
 With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 
 And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
 And writhing half my form about, 
 Howl'd back my curse ; but midst the tread, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed. 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
 It vexes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it well in after days : 
 There is not of that castle gate. 
 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight. 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
 
428 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 
 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
 And many a time ye there might pass, 
 Nor dream that ere that fortress was ! 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
 Their crackling battlements all cleft. 
 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain 
 From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof 
 
 They little thought that day of pain, 
 When launch'd, as on the lightning's tlash. 
 They bade me to destruction dash, 
 
 That one day I should come again, 
 With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The count for his uncourteous ride. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank. 
 
 When, with the wild horse for my guide. 
 They bound me to his foaming flank : 
 At length I play'd them one as frank — 
 For time at last sets all things even — 
 
 And if we do but watch tlie hour. 
 
 There never yet was human powei 
 Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
 xr. 
 
 " Away, away, my steed and I, 
 Upon the pinions of the wind. 
 All human dwellings left behind ; 
 
 We sped like meteors through the sky, 
 
MAZEPPA. 429 
 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is checker'd with the northern hght : 
 Town — village — none were on our track, 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent, 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some stronghold 
 Against the Tartars built of old, 
 No trace of man. The year before 
 A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
 And where the spahi's hoof hath trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
 
 I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
 But fast we fled, away, away — 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career : 
 At times I almost thought, indeed, 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angry might, 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony, 
 
 Increased his fury and aftVight : 
 I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low. 
 But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
 
430 MAZEPPA. 
 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
 Which, oozing through my Umbs, ran o'er; 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A sometliiog fierier far tlian flame. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 
 
 I saw no bounds on either side : 
 
 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 
 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste. 
 
 And strips the forest in its haste, — 
 
 But these were few, and far between, 
 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 
 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
 
 Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 
 Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 
 
 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 
 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 
 Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
 
 So cold and stark, the raven's beak 
 
 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 
 
 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 
 
 And here and there a chestnut stood. 
 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
 
 But far apart — and well it were, 
 Or else a different lot were mine — 
 
 The boughs gave away, and did not tear 
 My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
 My wounds, already scarr'd with cold— 
 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 
MAZEPPA. 431 
 
 We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
 By night I heard them on the track. 
 Their troop came hard upon our back. 
 With their long gallop, which can tire 
 The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
 Where'er we flew, they follow 'd on, 
 Nor left us with the mornhig sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
 At daybreak winding through the wood, 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their stealing, rustUng step repeat. 
 Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde. 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
 Than through the forest-paths he pass'd — 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favour'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
 A woman piqued — v/ho has her will. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " The wood was past ; 'twas more than noon, 
 But chill the air, ahhough in June ; 
 
432 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 Prolong'd endm'ance tames the bold . 
 And I was then not what I seem, 
 But headlong as a wintry stream, 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 I well could count their causes o'er : 
 And what with fury, fear, and wrath. 
 The tortures which beset my path, 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
 Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood. 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 
 What marvel if this wornout trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
 The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground; 
 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
 My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
 And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel. 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
 Which saw no farther : he who dies 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 I felt the blackness come and go, 
 
 And strove to wake ; but could not make 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 I felt as on a plank at sea. 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
 At the same time upheave and whelm, 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 
MAZEPPA. 433 
 
 My undulating life was as 
 
 The fancied lights that flitting pass 
 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 
 Fever begins upon the brain ; 
 
 But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
 
 But a confusion worse than such: 
 
 I own that I should deem it much, 
 Dying, to feel the same again •, 
 And yet I do suppose we must 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
 No matter ; I have bared my brow 
 Full in Death's face — before — and now.^ 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 
 
 And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 
 Life resumed its lingering hold. 
 
 And throb by throb : till grown a pang 
 Which for a moment would convulse, 
 My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
 
 My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
 My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 
 My sight return'd though dim ; alas ! 
 
 And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 
 There was a gleam too of the sky. 
 
 Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
 
 * [The reviewer already quoted says, — " As the Hetman pro- 
 ceeds, it strikes us there is a much closer resemblance to the 
 fiery flow of Sir Walter Scott's chivalrous narrative, than in any 
 of Lord Byron's previous pieces. Nothing can be gander than 
 the sweep and torrent of the horse's speed, and the slow, unwea- 
 ried, inflexible pursuit of the wolves."] 
 
434 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 The bright broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 And we are halfway, striigghng o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance, 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stifFen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
 And dashes off the ascending waves. 
 And onward we advance ! 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 
 A haven I but little prized. 
 For all behind was dark and drear, 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 How many hours of night or day, 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 I could not tell ; I scarcely knew, 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 
 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still stram 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 
 We gain the top : a boundless plain 
 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night. 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
 Like precipices in our dreams. 
 
 To stretch beyond the sight ; 
 
 And here and there a speck of white, 
 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
 
 In masses broke into the light. 
 
 As rose the moon upon my right : 
 But naught distinctly seen. 
 
M A Z E P P A. 435 
 
 In the dim waste would indicate 
 
 The omen of a cottage gate ; 
 
 No twinkhng taper from afar 
 
 Stood hke a hospitable star ; 
 
 Not even an ignis-fatims rose 
 
 To make him merry with my woes : 
 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me then . 
 Although detected, welcome still, 
 Reminding me, through every ill, 
 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Onward we went — but slack and slow •, 
 
 His savage force at length o'erspent, 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour ; 
 
 But useless all to me : 
 His new-born tameness naught avail'd — 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 
 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble effort still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 
 
 But still it was in vain : 
 My limbs were only wrung the more. 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er. 
 
 Which but prolong'd their pain : 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done. 
 Although no goal was nearly won : 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 
 How slow, alas ! he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day ; 
 
436 MAZEPPA. 
 
 How heavily it roU'd away — 
 
 Before the eastern tlame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
 And call'd the radiance from their cars/ 
 And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 Which lay around — behind — before ; 
 What booted it to traverse o'er 
 Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
 Lay in the wild, luxuriant soil; 
 No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
 The very air was mute ; 
 And not an insect's shrill, small horn. 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
 Panting as if his heart would burst, 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
 And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 
 At length, while reeling on onr way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh. 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 
 * ['' Rose crimson, and forbade the stars 
 
 To sparkle in their radiant cars." — MS.] 
 
MAZEPPA. 437 
 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
 With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
 Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
 And feet that iron never shod, 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet ; 
 The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 
 He answered, and then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 And reeking limbs immovable. 
 His first and last career is done ! 
 On came the troop — 'they saw him stoop, 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 They stop — they start — they snuff" the air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
 Headed by one black mighty steed, 
 Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed. 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
 They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 
 And backward to the forest fly, 
 By instinct, from a human eye. — 
 They left me there to my despair. 
 
43S MAZEPPA. 
 
 Liiik'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
 Whose hfeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
 ReUeved from that unwonted weight, 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him — nor me — and there we lay 
 
 The dying on the dead ! 
 I little deem'd another day 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head 
 
 " And there from morn to twilight bound 
 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round, 
 
 With just enough of life to see 
 
 My last of suns go down on me. 
 
 In hopeless certainty of mind, 
 
 That makes us feel at length resign'd 
 
 To that which our foreboding years 
 
 Presents the worst and last of fears 
 
 Inevitable — even a boon, 
 
 Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
 
 Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care. 
 
 As if it only were a snare 
 
 That prudence might escape : 
 At times both wish'd for and implored. 
 At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
 Yet still a dark and hideous close 
 To even intolerable woes, 
 
 And welcome in no shape. 
 And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
 They who have revell'd beyond measure 
 In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
 Die calm, or calmer, oft, than he 
 Whose heritage was misery : 
 For he who hath in turn run through 
 All that was beautiful and new. 
 
MAZEPPA. 439 
 
 Hath naught to hope, and naught to leave ; 
 And save the future, (which is view'd 
 Not quite as men are base or good. 
 But as their nerves may be endued,) 
 
 With naught perhaps to grieve : — 
 The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 
 And death, whom he should deem his friend, 
 Appears to his distemper'd eyes. 
 Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
 The tree of his new Paradise. 
 To-morrow would have given him all. 
 Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ; 
 To-morrow would have been the first 
 Of days no more deplored or cursed, 
 But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
 Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
 Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
 To-morrow would have given him power 
 To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
 And must it dawn upon his grave ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 
 Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 
 I thought to mingle there our clay ; 
 
 And my dim eyes of death had need, 
 
 No hope arose of being freed : 
 I cast my last looks up the sky, 
 
 And there between me and the sun 
 I saw the expecting raven fly, 
 Who scarce would wait till both should die, 
 
 Ere his repast begun ; 
 
440 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before ; 
 I saw his wing through tvvihglit flit, 
 And once so near me he aUt, 
 
 I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 
 But the shght motion of my hand. 
 And feeble scratching of the sand. 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
 Which scarcely could be called a voice. 
 
 Together scared him off" at length. — 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
 And went and came with wandering beam, 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense ; 
 And then subsiding back to death, 
 And then again a little breath, 
 A little thrill, a short suspense. 
 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " I woke — where was I ? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on me ? 
 And doth a roof above me close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
 And is it mortal, yon bright eye. 
 That watches me with gentle glance ? 
 I closed my own again once more. 
 
MAZE P PA. 411 
 
 As doubtful that my former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
 Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
 The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
 Even with my first return of thought ; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be, — 
 But that I lived, and Avas released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast : 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak. 
 
 But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 Enough to leave my accents free ; 
 And then her hand on mine she laid. 
 And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread. 
 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
 Even music follow'd her light feet; — 
 
 But those she call'd were not awake. 
 And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 
 Another look on me she cast. 
 
 Another sign she made, to say. 
 That 1 had naught to fear, that all 
 Were near, at my command or call, 
 
 And she would not delay 
 
442 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 Her due return : — while she was gone, 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
 " She came with mother and with sire — 
 What need of more ? — I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest, 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
 They found me senseless on the plain — 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 
 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain. 
 
 Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
 Bound, naked, bleeding and alone, 
 To pass the desert to a throne, — 
 
 What mortal his own doom may guess ?- 
 
 Let none despond, let none despair ! 
 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 May see our coursers graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 
 As I shall yield when safely there. ^ 
 
 * [" Charles, having perceived that the day was lost, and that 
 his only chance of safety was to retire with the utmost precipitation, 
 suffered himself to be mounted on horseback, and with the re- 
 mains of his army fled to a place called Perewolochna, situated 
 in the angle formed by the junction of the Vorskla and the Borys- 
 thenes. Here, accompanied by Mazeppa, and a few hundreds 
 of his followers, Charles swam over the latter great river, and 
 proceeding over a desolate country, in danger of perishing with 
 hunger, at length reached the Bog, where he was kindly received 
 by the Turkisli pasha. The Russian envoy at the Sublime Porte 
 demanded that Mazeppa should be delivered up to Peter, but the 
 
M A Z E P P A. 443 
 
 Comrades, good-night !" — The Hetman threw 
 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him, who took his rest whene'er 
 The hour arrived, no matter where : 
 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, — 
 
 The king had been an hour asleep.^ 
 
 old Hetman of the Cossacks escaped this fate by taking a dis- 
 ease which hastened his death." — Barrow's Peter the Great, pp. 
 196—203. 
 
 ^ [It is impossible not to suspect that the poet had some 
 circumstances of his own personal history in his mind, when he 
 portrayed the fair Polish Theresa, her youthful lover, and the 
 jealous rage of the old Count Palatine.] 
 
ELEGANTLY ILLUSTEATED 
 
 BOOKS FOR PRESENTS, 
 
 RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY 
 
 CAREY & HART, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 I. 
 LONGFELLOW'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 WITH ELEVEN SUPEBB ENGRA.VINGS, 
 
 FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY HUNTINGDON, 
 
 BY AMERICAN ARTISTS, 
 
 And elegantly printed on fine velliim paper. 
 
 FIFTH EDITION, COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME OCTAVO. 
 
 Price $5.00 hound in scarlet, gilt edges ; or 
 " $7.00 bound in Turkey morocco, hy S. Moore. 
 
 " Thi3 is the very luxury of literature — Longfellow's charming poems presented in a form of 
 luisuipussed beauty." — Neal'a Gazette. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 •WITH TEN PINE STEEL E N Q R A V I N Q S, FROM OBIOINAL DESIGNS, 
 EXPRESSLY FOR THIS EDITION. 
 
 BY H. CORBOULD AND KENNY MEADOWS. 
 
 Elegantly printed from new type, on fine paper. 
 
 THIRD EDITION, COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME OCTAVO. 
 
 Price S'^OO bound in scarlet, gilt edges ; or 
 'Elegantly bound by S. Moore in Turkey morocco, $7.00. 
 
 " The ' getting up' of this edition is creditable in the highest degree to the publishers and the 
 fine arts of the country. The paper, binding, and tlie engravings are all of the very best kind." 
 
 Inquirer and Courier. 
 
 III. 
 
 MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY THIRTEEN STEEL ENGBA-VINSS, 
 
 EXECUTED BY THE MOST CELEBRATED ARTIST& 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY PRINTED ON FINE WHITE PAPER. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION, COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME OCTAVO. 
 
 Price $.5.00 bound in scarlet, gilt edges ; or 
 Elegantly bound by S. Moore in calf or Turkey nwrocco, $7.00. 
 
 "How much more impressive must bo its penisal from the maemiflcent volume just issued by 
 Carey & Hart, of this city, in ' Annual' style, its snowy leaves printed in the perfection of the art, 
 and the matter illustrated by masters of the pencil and graver." — Saturda;/ Courier, 
 
IV. 
 
 BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY TWENTY SUPERB ENGRAVINGS 
 FROM DESIGNS BY E. LEUTZE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME, 
 
 ENGRAVED BY AMERICAN ARTISTS, 
 AND PRINTED ON FINE VELLUM PAPEK. 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME OCTAVO. FIFTH EDITION. 
 
 Price $5.00 bound in scarlet, 'gilt edges ; or ** 
 
 Beautifully bound by S. Moore in calf or Turkey morocco, $7.00. 
 
 " This Is really a splendid book, and one of tlie most magnificent of Carey & Hart's coUectlOD 
 of ' The Illustrated Poets.' " 
 
 V. 
 
 WILLIS'S POETICAL WORKS 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED FROM 0RIOINA.L DESIGNS BY E. LEUTZE, 
 
 AND ELEGANTLY ENGRAVED BY AMERICAN ARTISTS, 
 
 IN A STYLE 
 
 EQUAX, IF NOT SUPERIOR, TO BRYANT, LONGFELLOW. SCOTT, OR MOORE'S POEMS 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED SEVERAL NEW POEMS, 
 
 ■WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS VOLUME. 
 
 Price $5.00 bound in scarlet, gilt edges; or in Turkey morocco, $7.00. 
 
 VI. 
 
 MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS. 
 
 [just ready.] 
 illustrated from original designs by darley, 
 Suptrila iEngraficU fig amcn'ran artists, 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS BY CHENEY. 
 
 Comprising numerous Poems never before published, and elegantly printed 
 on vellum paper. 
 
 iVice, $5.00 bound in scarlet, gilt edges; or $7.00 in Turkey morocco. 
 
 VII. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. A ROMAUNT. 
 
 BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION, SUPERBLY ILLDSTRATED WITH TWELVE ELEGANT 
 
 STEEL ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 EXECUTED BY AMERICAN ARTISTS, 
 
 FROM DESIGNS IN MURRAY'S MAGNIFICENT LONDON EDITION. 
 
 Beautifully printed on fine paper witb large type. 
 Price $5.00 bound in scarlet, gilt edges; or in Turkey morocco, $7.00. 
 
VIII. 
 
 TALES AND POEMS BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 INCLDDINQ 
 
 The Giaour, Bride of Abydos, Corsair, Siege of Corintt and The Prisoner of 
 
 ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED ■TOITH STEEL ENGHAVINC5S, 
 
 FROM DESIGNS BY WARREN. 
 Price $5.00 bound in scarlet, gilt edges ; or $7.00 in Turkey morocco. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE FEMALE POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 EDITED BY EREDEFJCK EOWTOK 
 WITH ELEGANT ILLUSTRATIONS, EXECUTED BY EMINENT ARTISTS 
 
 Beautifully printed on fine paper. 
 Brici $5.00 hmmd in scarlet, gilt edges; or S7.00 in Turlcey niorocco. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY OF EUROPE. 
 
 BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT OF SCHILLER AND ENGRAVED TITLE-PAGE. 
 
 Third Edition. Cloth trua. Price S3.75. 
 
 " It i3 the moat complete work of the kind in Eiislisli literature." — Boston Courier. 
 " A more desirable work for the scholar or man of taste has scarcely ever been issued in tlie 
 United States."— iV. r. Tribune. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA. 
 
 BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. 
 
 ■WITH PORTRAITS OF DANA, BRYANT, SPRAGDE, HALLECK, AND LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Tenth Edition, much enlarged and entirely re-arranged. Cloth extra. Price $.3.00. 
 
 " No better selection from the poetry of our native bards has ever been made, and no person 
 nould do better with the materials tlian Mr. Griswold has done." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. 
 
 WITH A SPLENDID PORTRAIT OP BYRON IN THE ALBANIAN COSTUME 
 
 Third Edition. Cloth extra. Price $3.00. 
 
 " Such is the critical acumen discovered in these selections, that scarcely a page is to be found 
 but is redolent with beauties, and the volume itself may be regarded as a galaxy of literary 
 pc<U"ls." — Danocridic Reokw. 
 
XIII. 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY OF THE ANCIENTS. 
 
 BY WILLIAM PETEK,, A. IvI. 
 
 COMPBISING TRANSLATIONS AND SPECIMENS OF THB 
 
 POETS OF GREECE AND ROME; 
 
 WITH AN ELEGANT ENGEAVED VIEW OF THE COLISEUM AT EOME. 
 
 SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED. 
 ClotK extra, price $3.00 ; or elegantly bound by Samud Moore in Turkey morocco, $5.00. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE FLORAL OFFERING! A TOKEN OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 BY MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, 
 
 wrrn ten bouquets of flowers, beautifullt coloured from nature 
 BT J. ACKERMAN. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME QUARTO, HANDSOMELY BOUND. 
 Price, $3.50. 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE FEMALE POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 BY RUFUS WILJIOT GRISWOLD. 
 
 UNIFORM IN SIZE 'WITH "THE FOETS AND POETHTjOF AMERICA," AND FOBMINO 
 A COMPANION TO THAT VOLUME. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME ROYAL OCTAVO, WITH ELEGANT STEEL ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 Price, in cloth, gilt edges, $3.00. [Just ready.] 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE PROSE WRITERS OF AMERICA. 
 
 BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. 
 
 ■WTTH P0BTR.AIT3 OF WASHINGTON IBVINO, PBESCOTT, HOFFMAN, KENNEDY. 
 AUDUBON, -WILDE, ETC. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME OCTAVO, CLOTH EXTRA. 
 SECOND EDITION. Price $3.75. 
 
 o 1 5 "'^ XVII. 
 
 THE PROSE WRITERS OF GERMANY. 
 
 BY PROFESSOR HEDGE. 
 
 WITH POBTBAITS OF OOETHE, SCHILLER, LUTHER, RIGHTS! B, BTO. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME, UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE. 
 
 Price ?):i.50. 
 

 i"^ 
 
 . -^^'-^ ^^-^- x.^^' ^ ' -^^'"^ 
 
 V- 
 
 
 \ 
 
 \^^^ . , . , ^- 
 
 
 
 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTrONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724)779-2111