W TWO HUNDRED ENGRAYVINGS N'frorn Odliiaal grabaiings 13y i BYRO i ~ ~ ~ W1TK UP~EWARD MORIN.-i~tr j~~~~~~3 L ~~~~~~~L-L T "t t t:,P~~~~~~~~~~ g-N~~~ CONTENT S. TmHE CoRsAIR.- - HEBREW MrELODIES-Continued. Canto I.. 1 I saw thee weep... 443 Canto II.. 11 Thy days are done. 443 Canto III. 19 Song of Saul, before his last battle.. 443 Notes 29 Saul.443 I~j'J~~~~~~~~~s~ARA:~, "All is vanity, saith the Preacher". 444 Canto I. 31 When coldness wraps the suffering clay. 444 Canto II. 40 Vision of Belshazzar..444 Notes 50 Sun of th6 Sleepless. 446 Tima GIAOUnR 52 Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 446 Notes......68 Herocl's lament for Mariamne.. 6 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS:- On the day of the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus 446 Canto I..... 71 By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept 447 Canto II. 79 The destruction of Sennacherib 447 /q otes..... ~~~Notes.88 A Spirit passed before me 447 THE SIroe OF ComINTH.91 IIouns Or IDLENESS. Preface.... 449 Notes 107 On the Death of a young Lady.450 -.-PARIsINA.108 To E-.450 Notes.118 To D-. 450 HEI PIiSONElt OF CsIsLLO. 119.. Epitaph on a Friend 450 Notes. 125 A Fragment.451 TiiE DREAM 126 On leaving Newstead Abbey 451 I'TuE LAMERNT OF TAxso. 130 Lines 451 DON JUAN:- Adrian's Address to his Soul when dying 451 Dedication.135 Translation from Catullus, 42 (I Canto I. 137 Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibullus 452 Canto II,.164 Imitation of Tibullus.. 452 Canto III. 190 Translation from Catullus. 462 Canto IV. 20 5 Imitated from Catullus 452 Canto V.. 218 Translation from Horace.452 Canto VI. 238 From Anacreon 453 Canto VII.. 253 From Anacreon 453 Canto VIiI. 263 From the Prometheus Vinetus of.Uschylus 454 Canto IX. 279 To Emma.454 Canto X..289 To M. S. G. 455 Canto XI. 299 To Caroline455 Canto XII..310 To Caroline..455 Canto XIII. 320 To Caroline.456 Canto XIV..336 Stanzas to a lady 456 Canto XV..348 The First Kiss of Love 456 Canto XVI. 359 On a ehange of Masters at a great public Sehool 457 Notes 372 To the Duke of Dorset.458 L-A.MANFEED. A Dramatie Poem ~.. 379 Fragment. 459 - N otes 398 Granta. A Medley 459 IEAvEN ANtD ERTH. A Myster.... 399 On a distant view of the Village and School tf Notes..405 Harrow-on-the-kfill 46D ICAIN. A. Mystery. r6 To M 461 HEBREW MIELODIES S To Woman he walks in beauty. 440 o M. S. G. The harp the monareh minstrel swept. 441 To Mary. If that high world.441 To Leshia The wild gazelle.441 Lines addressed to a young Oh! weep for those.441 Love's last Adieu On JordanT's Banks t. 441 Dam.tas Jeptha's Dau.ghter. 442 To Marion Oh! snateh'd away in eauty's bloom. 443 To a La(' My soul is dark 44 O... 443 Oscar. I~~~~~~~~~~~~T oa ~~~~~vi ~~CONTENTh. IIouRs OF IDLeINESS-Continued. PAGE. MiISCELLANEOUS POE-MS:- aG. The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus... 469'Maid of Athens, ere we part... 554 Translation from the Medea of Euripides.. 473 Farewell! if ever fondet prayer... 555 Thoughts suggested by a College Examination. 473 Bright be the place of thy soul.. 555 To a beautiful Quakeress.. 474 Remind me not, remind me not. 555 The Cornelian.... 475 There was a time, I need not name.. 555 An occasional Prologue.... 475 And wilt thou weep, when I am low?. 556 On the Death of Mr. Fox 475 On Parting.... 656 The Tear.. 476 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle 556 Reply to some Verses.... 476 Remember him, whom Plssion's power. 556 To the sighing Strephon.... 477 Lines written beneath a Picture 557 To Eliza.... 477,Stanzas for music.. 7 Laehin-y-Gair.... 477 The Chain I gave... 557 To Romance..478 Translation of a Romaic Song 557 Answer to some elegant Verses 479 Translation of a lRomaie Love Song... 559 Elegy on Newstead Abbey 480 From the Portuguese... 559 Childish Recollections.482 To Genevra. Sonnets I. and I I. 559 Answer to a beautiful Poem 486 To Lake Leman. Sonnet 560 Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Beecher 486 +-Darkness.. 561 The Death of Calmar and Orla. 487 Churchill's Grave... 561 To Edward Noel Long, Esq..... 488a youthful riend2 To a Lady...489 Inscription on the Monument of' Newfoundland To~~~~~~~~~~ a Lad 489 I would I were a careless Child 490 Do- 563 When I roved a young Highlander 490 To Time..563 To Georg~e, Earl Delawa~rr,491 Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a To the Earl of Clare. 491 Skull..563 Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- Prometheus 564 yard of Harrow..492 Lines written in the Travellers' Book at OrchoNotes.. 493 menus565 iNGLrS R BJ[en~DS AND SCOTCH REVIEwgERS. A Satire. 497 Lines written in an Album, at Malta 565 o T'ostssript. 510 Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos 56.5 Notes.. 511 C Translation of a famous Greek War Song. 565 THE WALTZ. An apostrophie Hymn 5 17- The Spell is broke, the Charm is flown!. 566 Notes...521 Stanzas written on passing the Ambracian Gulf 505 PoEMIs ON NAPOLEON - To Florence. 566 Ode to Napoleon.523. Stanzas composed during a Thunder-storm 566 Ode from the French....527 On being asked what was the "OOrigin of Love" 567 To Napoleon. 528 Impromptu, in reply to a Friend.. 567 Napoleon's Farewell... 529 To Samuel Rogers, Esq. 567 On the Star of the Le-ion of Honhour..530 On the Star of the Legion of H~onour 530 Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of Jersey 568 Notes....530 Stanzas to a Lady on leaving England. 569 MoxoDY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGIT ITON ].B The Farewell... 569 SHERIDAN... 531'jfhen we two parted...570 ADDREss, spoken at the Opening of Daury-Lane Lines to a Lady weeping... 570 Theatre, Saturday, October 10, 1812. 533 Windsor Poetics... 570 POEMS TO THYRZA: — Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter To Thyrza.... 534 Parker, Bart.. 570 Away, away, ye notes of woe. 534 P A Fragment.... 571 One struggle rmre, and I am free.. 534 _-~Stanzas for Music... 572 Euthanasi... 535 Fill the Goblet again... 572 And thou art dead, as young as fair 535 Remember thee! remember thee!.. 573 if sometimes in the haunts of men 536 On a cornelian heart which was broken. 573 _DoMESTIC PIEcEs:- /N otes.......574 -— are thee well.... 537 CHILDE HAROLD:__",tch,538 Preface....-575 4usta.. 539 To Ianthe.. 576 539 Canto I... 577 540 Notes....593'on was ill. 541 j Canto II... 594, 542 Notes...609 543 Canto III... 61 t_ THE TH E C ORSAISR. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. MY DEAR M0oon, I forgotten the gratification derived from your society, not I DEiCATE to you the last production with which I shall abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your,eitrespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some sure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own you among the firmest of her patriots; while you stand country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there be found; repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose only and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sin- his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun. cere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one and less clouded sky; but wildness. tenderness, and orination. It will at least prove to you, that I have neither I ginality, are part of your national claim of oriental des. Ri ina~y r ato orntoa li foina is wiii THE CORSAIR. cent, to which you have already thus far proved your title their deeds and qualities than if a- had been personal. Be more clearly than the most zealous of your country's anti- it so-if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of "drawing quarians.: from self," the pictures are probably like, since they are unMay I add a few words on a subject on which all men favourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable?-Self. I and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. have written much, and published more than enough to I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintane, demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but, for should think the author better than the beings of his It some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps the award of " Gods, men, nor columns." In the present amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but, instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, the allow) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, neverSpenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; theless, might be found with little more morality than though, I confess, it is the measure most after my own |" The Giaour," and perhaps-but no-I must admit Childe heart: Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto I Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-. identity, those who lilce it must give him whatever" alias" syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fer- they please. tile and mighty genius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, If, however, it were worth while to remove the imand our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits me most popular measure, certainly; but as I did not deviate here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, ilto the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take IMost truly, ily chance once more with that versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose And affectionately, former circulation is part of my present, and will be of my future, regret. His obedient servant, With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more per- BYRO~N, feet and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been soemetimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for Jantary 2, 181t Oil i'::::ilii' Hi.'hi:ii -Ti!iiiii......iiii i, - i!ii' ".....,.. ~.....~ I --- ------------— I —I —---------— ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~....... THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON-.* (1788-1824.) "O'er the harp, from earliest years beloved, He threw his fingers hurriedly, and tones Of melancholy beauty died away Upon its strings of sweetness."............................................ IT was reserved for the present age to produce one distinguished example of the Muse having descended upon a bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell afflictions of no ordinary description-afflictions originating probably in that singular combination of feeling with imagination which has been called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened the days of those on whom it has been conferred. If ever a man was entitled to lay claim to that character in all its strength and all its weakness, with its unbounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite sensibility of pleasure and of pain, that man was Lord Byron. Nor does it require much time, or a deep acquaintance with human nature, to discover why these extraordinary powers should in so many cases have contributed more to the wretchedness than to the happiness of their possessor. We think that many points of resemblance may be traced between Byron and Rousseau. Both are distinguished by the most ardent and vivid delineation of intense conception, and by a deep sensibility of passion rather than of affection. Both too, by this double power, have held a dominion over the sympathy of their readers far beyond the range of those ordinary feelings which are excited by the mere efforts of genius. The impression of this interest still accompanies the perusal of their writings; but there is another interest, of more lasting and far stronger power, which each-of them possessed,the continual embodying of the individual character, it might almost be said of the very person, of the writer. When we speak or think of Rousseau or Byron, we are not conscious of speaking or thinking of an author; we have a vague but impassioned remembrance of men of surpassing genius, eloquence, and power,-of prodigious capacity both of misery and happiness: we feel as if we had transiently met such beings in real life, or had known them in the obscure communion of a dream. Each of their works presents, in uccesn eidea of themsel es;and while the productions of other great men stand out from them, like something they have created, theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures, busts of their living selves,-clothed, no doubt, at different times in different drapery, and prominent from a different background, but still impressed with the same form and mien and lineaments, and not to be mistaken for the representations of any other of the children of men. But this view of the subject, though universally felt to be a true one, requires perhaps * Written in 1831 by Sir Henry L. Bulwer, and now reprinted by his permission. 2 ii THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. a little explanation. The personal character to which we allude is not altogether that on which the seal of life has been set, and to which, therefore, moral approval or condemnation is necessarily annexed, as to the language or conduct of actual existence; it is the character, so to speak, which is prior.to conduct, and yet open to good and to illthe constitution of the being in body and in soul. Eachofthese illuil i en has, in this light, filled his works with expressions of his own character-has unveiled to the wo. s rctyiif his own being. They ave gone down into those depths which every man ma sound for-]xil e, tu ot for anoher and th iav made disclosures tothe Woreheld and knew there-disclosures that havexcited a profoun n nithat all mankind, the troubled ahiith"- untroubled, the lof a tlow, the strongest and tie aes are linked t otgeht.b.y the bony_' —' Ue...Thus, each of these wayward and richly-gifted spirits made himself the object of profound interest to the world, and that, too, during periods of society when ample food was everywhere spread abroad for the meditation and passions of men. Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and birth, a close resemblance in their passions and their genius may be traced, too, between Byron and Robert Burns. Their careers were short and glorious, and they both perished in the " rich summer of their life and song," and in all the splendour of a reputation more likely to increase than diminish One was a peasant, and the other a peer; but nature is a great leveller, and makes amends for the injuries of fortune by the richness of her benefaction: the genius of Burns raised him to a level with the nobles of the land; by nature, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. They both distinguished themselves by the force of their genius, and fell by the strength of their passions: one wrote from a love, and the other from a scorn of mankind; and both sung of the emotions of their own hearts with a vehemence and an originality which few have equalled, and none have surpassed. Lord Byron was descended from an illustrious line of ancestry. From the period of the Conquest, his family, who possessed extensive manors in Lancashire and other parts of the kingdom, were highly distinguished for their prowess in arms. John de Byron attended Edward I. in several warlike expeditions. Two of the Byrons fell at the battle of Cressy. Another member of the family, Sir John de Byron, rendered good service in Bosworth field to the Earl of Richmond, and contributed by his valour to transfer the crown from the head of Richard III. to that of Henry VII. Sir John was a man of honour as well as a brave warrior. He was very intimate with his neighbour Sir Gervase Clifton; and although Byron fought under Henry and Clifton under Richard, it did not diminish their friendship, though it put it to a severe test. Previous to that battle, they had mutually promised, that whichever should be vanquished, the other should endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of his friend's estate. While Clifton was bravely fighting at the head of his troop, he was struck off his horse: Byron perceiving the accident, quitted the ranks and ran to the relief of his friend, who died in his arms. Sir John de Byron kept his word; he interceded with the king; and the estate, preserved to the Clifton family, is now in the possession of a descendant of Sir Gervase. In the wars between Charles I. and the parliament, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest brother and representative of the family, was an eminent royalist, who having distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries. THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON', LORD BYRON. iii was appointed governor of Chelsea in 1642. He had two sons, who both died without issue; and his younger brother, Sir John, became heir. This person was made a knight of the Bath at the coronation of James I. He had eleven sons, most of whom distinguished themselves by their loyalty and gallantry on the side of Charles I. Seven of these brothers were engaged at the battle of M/[arston Moor, and four fell in the defence of the royal cause. Sir John Byron, one of the survivors, was appointed to several important commands; and on the 26th of October, 1643, was created Lord Byron, with a collateral remainder to his brothers. On the decline of the king's affairs, he was appointed governor to the Duke of York, and while holding this office died without issue, in France, in 1652; upon which his brother Richard, a celebrated cavalier, became the second Lord Byron. He was governor of Appleby Castle, and distinguished himself at Newark. He died in 1697, aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, the daughter of John Viscount Chaworth, of the kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five sons, all of whom died young, except William, whose eldest son, William, was born in 1722, and came to the title in 17.36. William Lord Byron passed the early part of his life in the navy. In 1763 he was made master of the stag-hounds; and in 1765 was sent to the Tower, and tried before the House of Peers, for killing his relation and neighbour, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel. The following details of this fatal event are peculiarly interesting from subsequent circumstances connected with the subject of our memoir. William Lord Byron belonged to a club of which Mr. Chaxworth was also a member. It met at the Star and Garter tavern, Pall Mall, and was called the Nottinghamshire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, they assembled at four o'clock to dinner as usual; and everything went on agreeably until about seven o'clock, when an angry dispute arising betwixt Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth concerning the quantity of game on their estates, the latter gentleman paid his share of the bill and retired. Lord Byron followed him out of the room, and, stopping him on the landing of the stairs, called to the waiter to show them into an empty room. They were shown into one, and a single candle placed on the table: in a few minutes the bell was rung, and Mr. Chaworth found mortally wounded. He said that Lord Byron and he entered the room together; that his lordship, in walking forward, said something relative to the former dispute, on which he proposed fastening the door; that on turning himself round from this act, he perceived his lordship with his sword half drawn, or nearlv so; on which, knowing his man, he instantly drew his own, and made a thrust at him, which he thought had wounded or killed him; that then, perceiving his lordship shorten his sword to return the thrust, he thought to have parried it with his left hand; that he felt the sword enter his body, and go deep through his back; that he struggled, and being the stronger man, disarmed his lordship, and expressed some concern, as under the apprehension of having mortally wounded him; that Lord Byron replied by saying something to the like effect, adding, at the'same time, that he hoped "he would now allow him to be as brave a man as any in the kingdom." For this offence he was unanimously convicted of manslaughter; but, on being brought up for judgment, pleaded his privilege as a peer, and was, in consequence, discharged. After this affair he was abandoned by his relations, and retired to Newstead Abbey; where, while he lived in a state of exile from persons of his own rank, his unhappy iv THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. temper found abundant exercise in continual war with his neighbours and tenants, and sufficient punishment in their hatred. One of his amusements was feeding crickets, which he rendered so tame as to crawl over him, and used to whip them with a wisp of straw when too familiar. In this forlorn condition he lingered out a long life, doing all in his power to ruin the paternal mansion for that other branch of the family to which Ihe was aware it must pass at his death, all his own children having descended before him to the grave. John, the next brother to WVilliam, and born in the year after him, that is in 1723, was of a very different disposition; but his career in life was almost an unbroken series of misfortunes. The hardships lie endured while accompan.ying Commodore Anson in his expedition to the South Seas are well known, from his own highly popular and affecting narrative. His only son, born in 1751, who received an excellent education, and held a commission in the Guards, was so dissipated, that he was known by the name of "mad Jack Byron." He was one of the handsomest men of his time; but his character was so notorious that his father was obliged to desert him, and his company was shunned by the better part of society. In his twenty-seventh year he seduced the Marchioness of Carmarthen, who had been but a few years married to a husband with whom she lived in the greatest happiness until the commencement of this unfortunate connection. After a fruitless attempt at reclaiming his lady, the marquis obtained a divorce; and a marriage was brought about between her and her seducer, which, after the most brutal conduct on his part, and the greatest misery and keenest remorse on hers, was dissolved in two years by her sinking to the grave, the victim of a broken heart. About three years subsequently, Captain Byron sought to recruit his fortune by matrimony; and having made a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an Aberdeenshire heiress (lineally descended from the Earl of Huntly and the princess Jane, daughter of James II. of Scotland), he united himself to her, ran through her property in a few years, and leaving her and her only child, the subject of this memoir, fled to France to avoid his creditors, and died at Valenciennes in 1791. George Byron Gordon (for so he was called, on account of the neglect his father's family had shown to his mother) was born at Dover, on the 22nd of January, 1788. On the flight of his father, the entire-care of: his infant years devolved upon his mother, who retired to Aberdeen, where' she lived in almost pe-rfecst —lusi'-oii,-n —th-e -rem-'ain:s of -her"g fortunie.-Hler' exce'e:ssi':-in-filgee, a'd-fie-td~a sece-e'-eof "that salutary discipline and control so neessay to childhood7-d6uUibtTfess contributed to the'formation of theb' les's' pleasing.features_ Lord ofLdByron'sicr. ust, mus-wever,- bereirmbre d,; — iniiMIrs. Byron's extenu tion. no iiat the -fdmitnst~ se a fe ~v'lrson wepeof erc__ eliar na6t uro ta a aso _ lortalo 1..tomo-o. ihi fer$ graweakness of constitution, naturally obtained for him in the heart.of a. mother a more thanwor - -ary po n of erness. When George was seven yearsi o hi- idther sent him to the grammar-school at Aberdeen, where he remained till his removal to Harrow, with the exception of some intervals of absence, which were deemed requisite for the preservation of his health. His progress beyond that of the general run of his class-fellows was never so remarkable as after those occasional intervals of recreation, when, in a few days, he would master exercises which, in the ordinary school routine, it had required weeks to accomplish. THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. But when he had overtaken the rest of the class, he always relaxed his exertions, and, contenting himself with being considered a tolerable scholar, never made any extra, ordinary effort to place himself at the head of the highest form. It was only out of school that he aspired to be the leader of everything: in all boyish games and amusements he would be first if possible. For this he~ a n — ent-n auttyc e4.-quck, enterprsing, and daring gmi lelim the irWppedi inrents which nature had thrown in his waRy Een _fr eig'ht o earsrage all hs spotswere of a man! character: fishingshooting, swimming, fmling a horse,_rtsIteering and trimmi llaais of bat_ nsf~ hischief e'ltght;- io the ilobse rver seemed,iioaeobsrative. on. iwseedingly- - nlhe juvenile wars of the school he generally ained the victory. Upon one occasion, a bo'y p-r buedy an'other took refuge in Mrs. Byron s house: the latter youth, who had been much abused by the former, proceeded to take vengeance on him on the landing-place of the drawing-room stairs, when George interposed in his defence, declaring that nobody should be ill-used while under his roof and protection. Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight; and although the former was by much the stronger of the two, the spirit of young Byron was so determined, that after the combat had lasted nearly two hours, it was suspended only in consequence of their complete exhaustion. It is the custom of the grammar-school at Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes of which it is composed should be assembled for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock in the morning; after prayers, a censor calls over the names, and those who are absent are punished. The first time that Lord Byron had come to school after his accession to his title, the rector had caused his name to be inserted in the censor's book, "Georgius Dominus de Byron," intea'orn," as formerly. The boysn usa d't1Eh-isis aristocratic sound, set up a loud and involuntari — s his s jffctorn his sensitit. h br into trsaniould ve fled from the school had he.. _'a-_had he wo uesn......m s to the The":awer which Lord Byron made to a fellow-scholar, who questioned him as to the cause of the honorary addition of " Dominus de Byron " to his name, served at that'time, when he was only ten years of age, to point out that he would be a man who would speak and act for himself; who, whatever might be his vices or his virtues would not condescend to receive them at second-hand, -It4a verda after heha& d,~ _the r a fault which he had not committed.When the question was put to him, he replied, "'t is not my doin r Fortune was to w4-tip ~-ysterd ay for what anoher did and she has this day made me a lord'for what ano athankhe re- to~.,! need not thank her i tiesfor I have asked nothing at herlhandf-~'L-/' On the 17th of Mlay, 1798, William, the fifth Lord Byron, departed this life at Newstead. The son of this eccentric nobleman died when George was five years old; and as the descent both of the titles and estates was to heirs male, the lIatter of course succeeded his great uncle. Upon this change of fortune, Lord Byron, now ten years of age, was removed from the immediate care of his mother, and placed as a ward under the guardianshi of t f Carlisle whose father had married s a e -arycedingLoord Byron._ In one or two points of character this great aunt resembled the.4. r g"... H vni THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD -BYRON. bard: she also wrote beautiful poetry; and after adorning the gay and fashionable world for many years, she left it without any apparent cause and with perfect indifference,.and in a great measure secluded herself from society. The young nobleman's guardian decided that he should receive the usual education given to England's titled sons, and that he should in the first instance be sent to the public school at Harrow. He was accordingly placed there under the tuition of the Rev. Dr. Drury, to whom he has testified his gratitude in a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, in a manner which does equal honour to the tutor and the pupil. A chlinge of scenif and circumstances so rpid would have been hazardous to any bo..i;tgl-da2E&l~ - n..e-'of Byron's ardent mind and previous habits. Taken at once from the socie ty-of —b i'- ai. a youths of his own newlyAtcquired~a"n ans'o gratification which to him must hve apee-Lc t- abltra it is by no means surprising a e s ou ave een betrayed into every sort of extra —+ vagance: none of them appear, however, to have been of a very culpable nature. "Though he was lame," says one of his schoolfellows, " he was a. great lover of sports, and preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon for' duck-puddle,' and gave up the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the common. He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learning; b athe was alwayes Ia c. in spoken, nd-undaunted.&boy I have seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the disadvantage of his lameness with all the spirit of an ancient combatant.' Don't you remember your battle with Pitt?' (a brewer's son), said I to him in a letter (for I witnessed it); but it seems that he had forgotten it.'You are mistaken, I think,' said he in reply;' it must have been with Rice-Puddingo, Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglasses, or George Raynsford, or Pryce (with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses Moore (the'clod'), or with somebody else, and not with Pitt; for with all the above-named and. other worthies of the fist had I an interchange of black eyes and bloody noses, at various and sundry periods: however, it may have happened for all that.' " Byron long retained a friendship for several of his Harrow school-comrades. Lord Clare was one of his constant correspondents; and Scroope Davies was also one of his chief companions before his lordship went to the Continent. The latter gentleman and Byron once lost all their money at " chicken-hazard," in one of the hells of St. James's, and the next morning Davies sent for Byron's pistols to shoot himself with. Byron sent a note refusing to give them, on the ground that they would be forfeited as a deodand and this comic excuse had the desired effect. Byron, whilst living at Newstead during the Harrow vacation, saw and became enainoured of Miss Chaworth, the Mary of his poetry, and the maiden of his beautiful " Dream." Mliss Chaworth was older than his lordship by a few years, was light and volatile; and though no doubt highly flattered by his attachment, treated our poet less as an ardent lover than as a younger brother. She was punctual to their assignations, which took place at a gate dividing the grounds of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and received all his letters; but her answers, it is said, were written with more of the caution of coquetry than the romance of " love's young dream." She, however, gave him her picture, but her hand was reserved for another. It was somewhat remarkable that Lord Byron and Miss Chaworth should both have Ji THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. vii Ibeen under the guardianship of Mi-r. White, who was associated with Lord Carlisle in that office over Byron. Mr. White particularly wished that his wards should be united in marriage; but Miss C., as young ladies generally do in such circumstances, differed from him, and was resolved to please herself in the choice of a husband. The celebrated Mr. M., commonly known by the name of Jack M., was at this time quite the rage, and Mliss C. was not subtle enough to conceal the penchant she had for him. It was in vain., that Mr. W. took her from one watering-place to another; still the lover, like an evii:spirit, followed; and at last, being somehow more persuasive than the " child of song," he carried off the lady, to the great grief of Lord Byron. The marriage, however, was not a happy one; the parties soon separated; and Mrs. M1. afterwards proposed an interview with her former lover, which, by the advice of his sister, he declined. v. Then it was that Lord Byron published his first poems, under the title of >ious ITdlene~swh ich gave little promise of that eminent genius which afterward g d''.e- aut Tue h istist ory of the attack upon this first essay of the noble young poet, by " a critic in the.Edinburgh Review, and his lordship's caustic poem, English Bards and 6 Scotch Reviewers, in retaliation, are well known. The latter, besides giving a present triumph to the poet, exhibited the first germs of those matchless powers which in a few years afterwards were felt and acknowledged throughout Europe and the world. From Harrow Lord Byron was removed to Trinity College, Cambridge: there, however, he did not mend his manners, nor hold the sages of antiquity in higher esteem than when under the command of his reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above studying the poets, and held the rules of the Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after-life he did the "invariable principles" of the Rev. MIr. Bowles. Reading after the fashion of the studious men of Cam was to him a bore, and he held a senior wrangler in the greatest contempt. Persons of real genius are seldom candidates for college prizes; and Byron left them to those plodding characters who perhaps deserve them, as the guerdon of the unceasing labour necessary to overcome the all-but invincible dulness of their intellects. Instead of reading what tutors pleased, Byron read what pleased himself, and - wrote what could not fail to displease those connected with the university. He did not admire their system of education; and they, as is the case with most scholars, could admire no other. He took to quizzing them;-and as no one likes to be laughed at, doctors frowned, fellows fumed, and Byron at the age of nineteen left college without a degree. Among other means which he adopted to show his contempt for academical honours, he kept a young bear in his room for some time, which he told all his friends was in training for a fellowship. When Lord Byron bade adieu to the university, he took up his residence at Newstead Abbey, where his pursuits were principally those of amusement. Among others he was extremely fond of the water. In his aquatic exercises lie had seldom any other companion than.a large Newfoundland dog, to try whose sagacity and fidelity he used to let himself fall out of the boat, as if by accident, when the dog would seize him and drag him ashore. On losing this dog, in the autumn of 1808, he caused a monument to be erected, upon which are inscribed some verses commemorative of its attachment.:-: The following descriptions of Newstead will be found interesting: — "This abbey was founded in the year 1170, by Henry II:, as a priory of Black Canons, viii THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It continued in the family of the Byrons until the time of our poet, who sold it first to Mr. Claughton for the sum of 140,0001.; and on that gentleman's not being able to fulfil the agreement, and paying 20,0001. of a forfeit, it was afterwards sold to another person, and most of the money vested in trustees for the jointure of the Hon. Mrs. Byron. The greater part of the edifice still remains. The present possessor, Major Wildman, is, with genuine taste, repairing this beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture. The late Lord Byron repaired a considerable part of it; but, forgetting the roof, he turned his attention to the inside; and the consequence was, that in a few years the rain, penetrating to the apartments, soon destroyed all those elegant devices which his lordship contrived. Lord Byron's own study was a neat little apartment, decorated with some good classic busts, a select collection of books, an antique cross, a sword in a gilt case, and, at the end of the room, two finely-polished skulls on a pair of light fancy stands. In the garden, likewise, there was a great number of these skulls, taken from the burial-ground of the abbey, and piled up together; but they were afterwards re-committed to the earth." A writer, who visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold it, says: "In one corner of the servants' hall lay a stone coffin, in which were fencing-gloves and foils; and on the walls of the ample but cheerless kitchen was painted in large letters,'Waste not, want not.' During the minority of Lord Byron, the abbey was in the possession of Lord G, his hounds, and divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and starlings. The internal traces of this Goth were swept away; but without, all appeared as rude and unreclaimed as he could have left it. With the exception of the dog's tomb, a conspicuous and elegant object, I do not recollect the slightest trace of culture or improvement. The late lord, a stern and desperate character, who is never mentioned by the neighbouring peasants without a significant shake of the head, might have returned and recognised everything about him, except, perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. There still slept that old pond, into which he is said to have hurled his lady in one of his fits of fury, whence she was rescued by the gardener, a courageous blade,.who was his lord's master, and chastised him for his barbarity. There still, at the end of the garden, in a grove of oak, two towering satyrs, he with his goat and club, and Mrs. Satyr with her chubby cloven-footed brat, placed on pedestals at the intersections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck for a moment, with their grim visages and silent shacgy forms, the fear into your bosom which is felt by the neighbouring peasantry at'th'oud laird's devils.' I have frequently asked the country people near Newstead, what sort of a man his lordship (our Lord Byron) was. The impression of his eccentric but energetic character was evident in the reply,' IHe's the devil of a fellow for comical fancies. He flogs th'oud laird to nothing; but he's a hearty good fellow for all that.'" Walpole, who had visited Newstead, gives, in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the following account of it: "As I returned I saw Newstead and Althorp; I like both. The former is the very abbey. The great east window of the church remains, and connects with the house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it: it has a private chapel quite perfect. The park, which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaned. The present lord has lost large sums, and paid part in old oaks, five thousand pounds' worth of which have been cut near the nJ THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. ix house. En revanche, he has built two baby forts, to pay his country in castles for damage done to the navy; and planted a handful of Scotch firs, that look like ploughboys dressed in old family liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals. The refectory, now the great drawing-room, is full of Byrons; the vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses making for them by a Venetian tailor." It was at Newstead, just before his coming of age, that he planned his fiuture travels; and his original intention included a much larger portion of the world than that which he afterwards visited. He first thought- of Persia, to which idea, in(leed, he for a long time adhered. He afterwards meant to sail for India; and had so far contemplated this project as to write for information to the Arabic professor at Cambridge, and to ask his mother to inquire of a friend who had lived in India, what things would be necessary for his voyage. He formed his plan of travelling upon very different grounds from those which he afterwards advanced. All men should travel at one time or another, he thought, and he had then no connexions to prevent him; when he returned he might enter into political life, for which travelling would not incapacitate him; and he wished to judge of men by experience. At length, in July 1809, in company with John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. (with whom his acquaintance commenced at Cambridge), Lord Byron embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and thence proceeded, by the southern provinces of Spain, to the Mediterranean The objects that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to have occupied his mind, to the temporary exclusion of his gloomy and misanthropic thoughts; for a letter which he wrote to his mother from thence contains much playful description of the scenes through which he had passed. At Seville Lord Byron lodged in the house of two ladies, one of whom was about to be married, and who, though he remained there only three days, paid him the most particular attention. At parting, she embraced him with great tenderness, cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of her own. With this specimen of Spanish female manners, he proceeded to Cadiz, where various incidents occurred to confirm the opinion he had formed at Seville of the Andalusian belles, and which made him leave it with regret, but with a determination to return to it. He wrote to his mother from Malta, announcing his safety, and again from Previsa in November. Upon arriving at Yanina, he found that Ali Pacha was with his troops in Illyrium, besieging Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vizier, having heard that an English nobleman was in his country, had given orders at Yanina to supply him with every kind of accommodation free of expense. From Yanina Lord Byron went to Tepaleen. Here he was lodged in the palace, and the next day introduced to Ali Pacdha, who declared that he knew him to be a man of rank from the smallness of his ears, his cu'rling hair, and his white hands. In going in a Turkish ship of war, provided by Ali Pacha, from Previsa, intending to sail for Patras, Lord Byron was very nearly lost in a moderate gale of wind, from the ignorance of the Turkish officers and sailors, and was driven on the coast of Suli, where an instance of disinterested hospitality in the chief of a Suliote village occurred. The honest Albanian, after assisting him in his distress, supplying his wants, and Iddging him and his suite, refused to receive any remuneration. When Lord Byron pressed him to accept some money, hle said, "I wish you to love me, not to pay me " At Yanina, on 3 THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. his return, he was introdaced to Hussein Bey and Mahmout Pacha, two young children of Ali Pacha. He afterwards visited Smyrna, whence he went in the Salsette frigate to Constan.tinople. On the 3rd of May, 1810, while the Salsette was lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron, accompanied by Lieutenant Ekenhead, swam across the Hellespont from the European shore to the Asiatic-about two miles wide. The tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, that it is impossible either to swim or to sail to any given point. Lord Byron went from the castle to Abydos, landing full three miles below his meditated place of approach. He had a boat in attendance all the way; so that no danger could be apprehended, even if his strength had failed. His lordship records, in one of his minor poems, that he got the ague by the voyage; but it was well known, that after landing he was so much exhausted, that he gladly accepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman, and reposed in his hut for severial hours. He was then very ill; and as Lieutenant Ekenhead was compelled to go on board his frigate, he was left alone. The Turk had no idea of the rank or consequence of his inmate, but paid him most marked attention. His wife was his nurse; and at the end of five days he left this asylum, completely recovered. When about to embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a cheese, a skin filled with wine, and a few paras (about a penny each), prayed Allah to bless him, and wished him safe home. When his lordship arrived at Abydos, he sent over his man Stefano to the Turk,- with an assortment of fishing nets, a fowling-piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve yards of silk to make gowns for his wife. The poor Turk was astonished. "What a noble return," said he, "for an act of humanity!" He then formed the resolution of crossing the Hellespont, in order to thank his lordship in person. 1E wife approved of the plan; and he had sailed about half way across, when a sudden squall upset his boat, and the poor Turkish fisherman found a watery grave. Lord Byron was much distressed on hearing of the catastrophe, and, with all that kindness of heart which was natural to him, he sent the widlow fifty dollars, and told her he would ever be her friend. This anecdote, so highly honourable to his lordship's memory, is very little known. Lieutenant Hare, who was on the spot at the time, furnished the particulars; and added that, in the year 1817, Lord Byron, then proceeding to Constantinople, landed at the same spot, and made a handsome present to the widow and her son. It was not till after Lord Byron arrived at Constantinople that he decided on not going to Persia, but to pass the following summer in the Morea. At Constantinople, Mr. Hobhouse left him to return to England. On losing his companion, Lord Byron went alone to many of the places which he had already visited, and studied scenery and manners, especially those of Greece, with the searching eye of a poet. His mind appeared occasionally to have some tendency towards a recovery from the morbid state of apathy which it had previously evinced; and the gratification he manifested on observing the superiority of England over other countries, proved that patriotism was far from being extinct in his bosom. The embarrassed state of his affairs at length induced him to return home; and ho arrived in the Volage frigate on the 2nd of July, 1811, having been absent two years. His health had not suffered by his travels, although it had been interrupted by two sharp fevers, in consequence of which he put himself on a vegetable diet, and drank no wine. Soon after his arrival the serious illness of his mother summoned him to Newstead, but on reaching the Abbey he found that she had breathed her last. He suffered much -~~~ ~~~~~~~~._ _,fl THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON1. fiom this loss, and from the disappointment of notYe boe'e (nis feelings on tb eVIy -eix e inte,,jgen Vht, ertfri@ whom deki masthe d bee n drowned ithem. ot lon be he had heard of tle death at Coimbra of a schoolfellow to whom he w i1Aas tta2~che — 1msahee melanciholy events, occurring a witmhntl he _~space-of~ mul_ a owful effect on Lord Towards the termination of his English Bards and Scotch -Reviewers, the noble author had declared that it was his intention to break off, from that period, his connexion with the Muses. Such resolutions are seldom maintained. In February 1812 the first two cantos.of.aCh~ilde..Hrold'.s Pilgrimage (with the man uscri XIir. Dallas) made.thei'ra a,anpod i n effect~i thepublic equal to that of any w~#which has been published w —- -- tfie last century. The indications Ap.: o through ever line of Chtilde -arold electrified the mass or placed at once tmon Lord Bvron's leard the-arl ancl for wci other men of genius have toiled long and obtained late. He bec.mopre-eninent amon.he itame o-Fhicountry by general acclamation. Those who hs-d: -9 fmf-ercilesslybcensuei dhis-j-uNt- ess-ys were the first to pay homage to his more matured efforts; while others, who saw in the sentiments of Childe Harold much to regret and censure, did not withhold their tribute of applause to the dethglht and force,pffexprsessioawhich animated the Pilgrimace. Thus, as all admired the poem, all were prepared to greet the author with that fame which is the poet's best reward. It was amidst such feelings of admiration that Lord Byron fully entered on that public stage, where, to the close of his life, he made so distinguished a figure. At one of the fashionable parties to which the noble bard was invited, his Majesty, then Prince Regent, happened to be present. Lord Byron was at some distance when he entered the room, but, on learning who he was, his Royal Highness sent a gentleman to desire that he would be presented. Of course the presentation took place: the Regent expressed his admiration of Childe UHarold's Pilgrimage, and entered into a conversation which so fascinated the poet, that had it.not been for an accident which deferred a levee intended to have been held the next day, he would have gone to court. Soon after, however, an unfortunate influence counteracted the e let of royal praise, and Byron permitted himself to write and speak disrespectfully of tne Prince. The whole of Byron's political career may be summed up in the following anecdotes: The Earl of Carlisle having declined to introduce him to the House of Peers, he resolved to introduce himself, and accordingly went there a little before the usual hour, when he knew few of the lords would be present. On entering he appeared rather abashed, and looked very pale, but, passing the woolsack where the Chancellor (Lord Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordinary routine of the house, he went directly to the table, where the oaths were administered to him. The Lord Chancellor then approached, and offered his hand in the most open, friendly manner, congratulating him on his taking possession of his seat. Lord Byron only placed the tips of his fingers in the Chancellor's hand: the latter returned to his seat: and Byron, after lounging a few minutes on one of the opposition benches, retired. To Mr. Dallas, who followed him out, he gave as a reason for not entering into the spirit of the Chancellor, "that it might have been supposed he would join the court party, whereas he intended to have nothing at all to do with politics." xii THE LIFE OF GEORGE GOIRDON, LORD BYRON. He only addressed the house three times: the first of his speeches was on the Framework Bill; the second in favour of the Catholic claims, which gave good hopes of his becoming an orator; and the other related to a petition from Major Cartwright. Byron himself says, the lords told him " his manner was not dignified enough for them, and would better suit the lower house;" others say, they gathered round him while speaking, listening with the greatest attention-a sign, at any rate, that he was interesting. He always voted with the Opposition, but evinced no likelihood of becoming the partisan of either side. The enmity that Byron entertained towards the Earl of Carlisle was owing to two causes: the earl had spoken rather irreverently of the Hours of Idleness; and had also refused to introduce his kinsman to the House of Lords, even, it is said, doubting his right to a seat in that honourable house. The Earl was a great admirer of the classic drama, and once published a pamphlet, in which he strenuously argued in behalf of the propriety and necessity of small theatres: the same day that this weighty publication appeared, he subscribed a thousand pounds for some public purpose. On this occasion Byron composed the following epigram: "Carlisle subscribes a thousand pound Out of his rich domains; And for a sixpence circles round The produce of his brains:'Tis thus the difference you may hit Between his fortune and his wit." Byron retained to the last his antipathy to this relative. On reading some lines addressed to Lady Holland by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning "Lady, reject the gift," &c he immediately wrote the following parody: " Lady, accept the gift a hero wore, In spite of all this elegiac stuff: Let not seven stanzas written by a bore Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff." On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron married, at Seaham, in the county of Durham, Anne Isabella, only daughter of Sir Ralph Millbank (since Noel), Bart. To this lady he had made a proposal twelve months before, but was rejected: well would it have been for their mutual happiness had that rejection been repeated. After their marriage, Lord and Lady Byron took a house in London, gave splendid dinner-parties, and launched into every sort of fashionable extravagance. This could not last long; the portion which his lordship received with Miss Millbank (ten thousand pounds) soon melted away; and at length an execution was actually levied on the furniture of his residence. It was then agreed that Lady Byron, who on the 10th of December, 1815, had presented her lord with a daughter, should pay a visit to her father till the storm was blown over, and some arrangements had been made with their creditors. From that visit she never returned, and a separation ensued, for which various reasons have been assigned: the real cause or causes, however, are up to this moment involved in mystery; though, as might be expected, a wonderful THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xiii sensation was excited at the time, and every description of contradictory rumour was in active circulation. Byron was first introduced to Miss MBillbank at Lady —'s. In going up stairs he stumbled, and remarked to Moore, who accompanied him, that it was a bad omen. On entering the room, he perceived a lady, more simply dressed than the rest, sitting on a sofa. IHe asked Moore if she was a humble companion to any of the ladies. The latter replied, "She is a great heiress; you'd better marry her, and repair the old place at Newstead." The following anecdotes on the subject of his marriage are given from Lord Byron's Conversations, in his own words: "There was something piquant, and what we term pretty, in Miss Millbank; her features were small and feminine, though not regular; she had the fairest skin imaginable; her figure was perfect for her height; and there was a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, which was very characteristic, and formed a happy contrast to the cold artificial formality and studied stiffness which is called fashion: she interested me exceedingly. It is unnecessary to detail the progress of our acquaintance: I became daily more attached to her, and it ended in my making her a proposal that was rejected; her refusal was couched in terms that could not offend me. I was besides persuaded that in declining my offer she was governed by the influence of her mother, and was the more confirmed in this opinion by her reviving our correspondence herself twelve months after. The tenor of her letter was that although she could not love me, she desired my friendship. Friendship is a dangerous word for young ladies; it is love full-fledged, and waiting for a fine day to fly. "I was not so young when'my father died, but that I perfectly remember him, and had very early a horror of matrimony, from the sight of domestic broils; this feeling came over me very strongly at my wedding. Something whispered me that I was sealing my own death-warrant. I am a great believer in presentiments: Socrates' demon was not a fiction; Monk Lewis had his monitor; and Napoleon many warnings. At the last moment I would have retreated if I could have done so. I called to mind a friend of mine, who had married a young, beautiful, and rich girl, and yet was miserable; he had strongly urged me against putting my neck in the same yoke: and, to show you how firmly I was resolved to attend to his advice, I betted Hay fifty guineas to one that I should always remain single. Six years afterwards, I sent him the money. The day before I proposed to Lady Byron, I had no idea of doing so. "It had been predicted by Mrs. Williams, that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age for me: the fortune-telling witch was right; it was destined to prove so. I shall never forget the 2nd of January I Lady Byron (Byrn, he pronounced it) was the only unconcerned person present; Lady Noel, her mother, cried; I trembled like a leaf, made the wrong responses, and after the ceremony, called her Miss Millbank; " There is a singular history attached to the ring: the very day the match was concluded, a ring of my mother's that had been lost was dug up by the gardener at Newstead.I thought it was sent on purpose for the wedding; but my mother's marriage had not been a fortunate one, and this ring was doomed to be the seal of an unhappier union still. "After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country seat of Sir Ralph's; and I was surprised at the arrangements for the journey, and somewhat out of humour to find a lady's maid stuck between me and my bride. It was rather too early to assume the husband, so I was forced to submit, but it was not with a very good grace. xiv THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. "I have been accused of saying, on getting into the carriage, that I had married Lady Byron out of spite, and because she had refused me twice. Though I was for a moment vexed at her prudery, or whatever it may be called, if I had made so uncavalier, not to say brutal, a speech, I am convinced Lady'Byron would instantly have left the carriage to me and the maid (I mean the lady's); she had spirit enough to have done so, and would properly have resented the affront. "Our honeymoon was not all sunshine, it had its clouds; and Hobhouse has some letters which would serve to explain the rise and fall in the barometer; but it was never down at zero. "A curious thing happened to me shortly after the honeymoon, which was very awkward at the time, but has since amused me much. It so happened that three married women were on a wedding visit to my wife (and in the same room at the same time), whom I had known to be all birds of the same nest. Fancy the scene of confusion that ensued! "The world says I married Miss Millbank for her fortune, because she was a great heiress. All I have ever received, or am likely to receive (and that has been twice paid back too), was 10,0001. My own income at this period was small and somewhat bespoke. Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and brought me in a bare 15001. a year; the Lancashire property was hampered with a lawsuit, which has cost me 14,0001., and is not vet finished. " I heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlment had been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind against me; that she had employed herself and others in watching me in London, and had reported having traced me into a house in Portland Place. There was one act unworthy of any one but such a confidante; I allude to the breaking open my writingdesk: a book was found in it that did n6t do much credit to my taste in literature, and some letters from a married woman with whom I had been intimate before my marriage. The use that was made of the latter was most unjustifiable, whatever may be thought of the breach of confidence that led to their discovery. Lady Byron sent them to the husband of the lady, who had the good sense to take no notice of their contents. The gravest accusation that has been made against me is that of having intrigued with Mrs. Mardyn in my own house, introduced her to my own table, &c.: there never was a more unfounded calumny. Being on the Committee of Drury Lane Theatre, I have no doubt that several actresses called on me; but as to Mrs. Mardyn, who was a beautiful woman, and might have been a dangerous visitress, I was scarcely acquainted (to speak) with her. I might even make a more serious charge against -- than employing spies to watch suspected amours. I had been shut up in a dark street in London, writing T/ie Siege of Corinth, and had refused myself to every one till it was finished. I was surprised one day by a doctor and a lawyer almost forcing themselves at the same time into my room; I did not know till afterwards the real object of their visit. I thought their questions singular, frivolous, and somewhat importunate, if not impertinent; but what should I have thought if I had known that they were sent to provide proofs of my insanity! I have no doubt that my answers to these emissaries' interrogations were not very rational or consistent, for my imagination was heated by other things; but Dr. Baillie could not conscientiously make me out a certificate for Bedlam, and perhaps the lawyer gave a more favourable report to his employers. The doctor said afterwards he had been told that I always looked down when Lady Byron bent her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptoms equally infallible, particularly those that TIE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xv! marked the late king's case so strongly. I do not, however, tax Lady Byron with this' transaction: probably she was not privy to it; she was the tool of others. Her mother always detested me: she had not even the decency to conceal it in her own house. Dining one day at Sir Ralph's (who was a good sort of man, and of whom you may form some idea, when I tell you that a leg of lnutton was always served at his table, that he might cut the same joke upon it), I broke a tooth, and was in great pain, which I could not avoid showing.' It will do you good,' said Lady Noel;' I am glad of it!' I gave her a look! "Lady Byron had good ideas, but could never express them; wrote poetry too, but it was only good by accident; her letters were always enigmatical, often unintelligible. Shc_. was easily made the dupe of the designing, for she thought her knowledge of mankind infallible. She had got some foolish idea of Madame de Stal's into her head, that a person /may be better known in the first hour than in ten years. She had the habit of drawing people's characters after she had seen them once or twice. She wrote pages on pages about my character, but it was as unlike as possible. She was governed by what she called fixed rules and principles, squared mathematically. She would have made an excellent wrangler at Cambridge. It must be confessed, however, that she gave no proof of her boasted consistency. First she refused me, then she accepted me, then she separated herself from meso much for consistency. I need not tell you of the obloquy and opprobrium that were cast upon my name when our separation was made public. I once made a list from the journals of the day of the different worthies, ancient and modern, to whom I was compared: I remember a few,-Nero, Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, Henry the Eighth, and lastly, the "-. All my former friends, even my Cousin George Byron, who had been brought up with me, and whom I loved as a brother, took my wife's part: he followed the stream when it was strongest against me, and can never expect anything from me; he shall never touch a sixpence of mine. I was looked upon as the worst of husbands, the most abandoned and wicked of men; and my wife as a suffering angel, an incarnation of all the virtues and perfections of the sex. I was abused in the public prints, made the common talk of private companies, hissed as I went to the House of Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to go to the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs. Mardyn had been driven with insult. The Examiner was the only paper that dared say a word in my defence, and Lady Jersey the only person in the fashionable world that did not look upon me as a monster. "In addition to all these mortifications, my affairs were irretrievably involved, and almcst so as to make me what they wished. I was compelled to part with Newstead, which I never could have ventured to sell in my mother's lifetime. As it is, I shall never forgive myself for having done so, though I am told that the estate would not now bring half so much as I got for it: this does not at all reconcile me to having parted with the old Abbey. I did not make up my mind to this step but from the last necessity; I had my wife's portion to repay, and was determined to add 10,0001. more of my own to it, which I did: I always hated being in debt, and do not owe a guinea. The moment I had put my affairs in train, and in little more than eighteen months after my marriage, I left England, a voluntary exile, intending it should be for ever." We shall here avail ourselves of some observations by a powerful and elegant critic,* whose opinions on the personal character of Lord Byron, as well as on the merits of his poems, are, from their originality, candour, and discrimination, of considerable weight. * Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. xvi THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. "The charge against Lord Byron," says this writer, "is not that he fell a victim to excessive temptations, and a combination of circumstances, which it required a rare and extraordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, prudence, and steadiness to surmount; but that he abandoned a situation of uncommon advantages, and fell weakly, pusillanimously, and selfishly, when victory would have been easy, and when defeat was ignominious. In reply to this charge I do not deny that Lord Byron inherited some very desirable, and even enviable privileges, in the lot of life which fell to his share. I should falsify my own sentiments if I treated lightly the gift of an ancient English peerage, and a name of honour and venerable antiquity; but without a fortune competent to that rank, it is not a bed of roses, nay, it is attended with many and extreme difficulties; and the difficulties are exactly such as a genius and temper like Lord Byron's were least calculated to meet-at any rate, least calculated to meet under the peculiar collateral circumstances in which he was placed. His income was very narrow; his Newstead property left him a very small disposable surplus; his Lancashire property was, in its condition, &c. unproductive. A profession, such as the army, might have lessened, or almost annihilated the difficulties of his peculiar position; but probably' his lameness rendered this impossible. He seems to have had a love of independence, which was noble, and probably even an intractability; but this temper added to his indisposition to bend and adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, or intriguing man, without a single good quality of head or heart, might have managed it much better; he might have made himself subservient to government, and wormed himself into some lucrative place; or might have lived meanly, conformed himself stupidly or cringingly to all humours, and been borne onward on the wings of society with little personal expense. "Lord Byr and temperament. If the world would not conform the mimastilljl a _ _ _% v e mnnT baronial pride of his ancestors, though he had not all ther wealth and their meai f ity, hos-pitaity, an —patrooa, —- _ithut the power. "With t`i-s-Tepe, these feelings, this genius, exposed to -'mbination of such untoward and trying circumstances, it would indeed have been inimitably praiseworthy if Lord Byron could have been always wise, prudent, calm,correct, pure, virtuous, and unassailable:-if he could have shown all the force and splendour of his mighty poetical energies, without any mixture of their clouds, their baneful lightnings, or their storms: if he could have preserved all his sensibility to every kind and noble passion, yet have remained placid, and unaffected by the attack of any blameable emotion;- that is, it would have been admirable if he had been an angel, and not a man! " Unhappily, the outrages' he received, the gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, even in the time of his highest favour with the public, turned the delights of his very days of triumph to poison, and gave him a sort of moody, fierce, and violent despair, which led to humours, acts, and words, that mutually. aggravated the ill-will and the offences between him and his assailants. There was a daring spirit in his temper and his talents, which was always inflamed rather than corrected by opposition. "In this most unpropitious state of things, everything that went wrong was attributed to Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, was assumed and argued upon as an undeniable fact. Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear,-quite unattended by a particle of doubt,-that in many things in which he has been the most blamed, he was the absolute victim of THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON xvii misfortune; that unpropitious trains of events (for I do not wish to shift the blame on others) led to explosions and consequent derangements, which no cold, prudent pretender to extreme propriety and correctness could have averted or met in a manner less blameable than that in which Lord Byron met it." By his ill-assorted marriage, Lord Byron had one child, a daughter, for whom he felt to the hour of his death the strongest and most anxious affection. e was named Ada:',k theautfu__ fetic stanzai at the opening of the third car of.?iietrd touchinly expresses his -paternal feehlinas to rdsIth s sole daughter of his house and h"art." In the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted England, to return to it no more. He crossed over to France, through which he passed rapidly to Brussels, taking in his way a survey of the field of Waterloo. He then proceeded to Coblentz, and up the Rhine to Basle. He passed the summer on the banks of the lake of Geneva. With what enthusiasm he enjoyed its scenery, his own poetry soon exhibited to the world. The third canto of Childe cHarold, anfred, and the Prisoner of Chillon were composed at the Campagno Diodati, at Coligny, a mile from Geneva. Lord Byron avoided as much as possible any intercourse with his countrymen at Venice; and this seems to have been in a great measure necessary, in order to prevent the intrusion of impertinent curiosity. In the appendix to one of his poems, written with reference to a book of travels, the author of which disclaimed any wish to be introduced to the noble lord, he loftily and sarcastically chastises the incivility of such a gratuitous declaration, expresses his " utter abhorrence of any contact with the travelling English;" and thus concludes: " Except Lords Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphry Davy, the late ir. Lewis, Bankes, W. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have exchanged a word with another Englishman, since I left their country; and almost all these I had known before. The others, and God knows there were some hundreds, who bored me with letters or visits, I refused to have any communication with, and shall be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutual." After a residence of three years at Venice, Lord Byron removed to Ravenna, towards the close of the year 1819. Here he wrote the Prophecy of.Dante, which exhibited anew specimen of the astonishing variety of strength and expansion of faculties he possessed and exercised. About the same time he wrote Sardanapalus, a tragedy; Cain, a mystery; and Heaven and Earth, a mystery. Though there are some obvious reasons which render Sardanapalus unfit for the English stage, it is, on the whole, the most splendid specimen which our language affords of that species of tragedy which was the exclusive -object ot Lord Byron's admiration. Cain is one of the productions which has subjected its noble author to the severest denunciations, on account of the crime of impiety alleged against it, as it seems to have a tendency to call in question the benevolence of Providence. In answer to the loud and general outcry which this production occasioned, Lord Byron observed, in a letter to his publisher, " If Cain be blasphemous, Paradise Lost is blasphemous, and the words of the Oxford gentleman,' Evil, be thou my good,' are from that very poem from the mouth of Satan; and is there anything more in that of Lucifer in the mystery? Cain is nothing more than a drama, not a. piece of argument: if Lucifer and Cain speak -as the first rebel and first murderer may be supposed to speak, nearly all the 4 xviii THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. rest of the personages talk also according to their characters; and the stronger passions have ever been permitted to the drama. I have avoided introducing the Deity as in Scripture, though Milton does, and not very wisely either: but have adopted his angel, as sent to Cain, instead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject, by falling short of what all uninspired men must fall short in, viz. giving an adequate notion of the effect of the presence of Jehovah. The old mysteries introduced him liberally enough, and all this I avoided in the new one." An event occurred at Ravenna, during his lordship's stay there, which made a deep impression on him, and to which he alludes in the fifth canto of Don Juan. The military commandant of the place, suspected of being secretly a Carbonaro, but too powerful a man to be arrested, was assassinated opposite Lord Byron's palace. His lordship had his foot in the stirrup at the usual hour of exercise, when his horse started at the report of a gun: on looking up, Lord Byron perceived a man throw down a carbine and run away at full speed, and another man stretched upon the pavement a few yards distant; it was the unhappy commandant. A crowd was soon collected, but no one ventured to offer the least assistance. Lord Byron directed his servant to lift up the bleeding body, and carry it into his palace; though it was represented to him that by doing so he would confirm the suspicion, which was already entertained, of his belonging to the same party. Such an apprehension could have had no effect on Byron's mind when an act of humanity was to be performed: he assisted in bearing the victim of assassination into the house, and putting him on a bed; but he was already dead from several wounds. "He appeared to have breathed his last without a struggle," said his lordship, when afterwards recounting the affair. " I never saw a countenance so calrn. His adjutant followed the corpse into the house; I remember the lamentation over him:-' Povero diavalo! non aveva fatto male, anche ad un cane.'" The following were the noble writer's poetical reflections (in Don Juan) on viewing the dead body:- I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shakle, or make a faith. But it was all a mystery: —here we are, And there we go:-but where? Five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far! And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar? And air, earth, water, fire, live,-and we dead? WVe whose minds comprehend all things?" That a being of such capabilities should abstractedly, and without an attempt to throw the responsibility on a fictitious personage, have avowed such startling doubts, was a daring which, whatever might have been his private opinion, he ought not to have hazarded. " It is difficult," observes Captain MIedwin, " tojudge, from the contradictory nature of his writings, what the religious opinions of Lord Byron really were. From the conversations I held with him, on the whole, I am inclined to think that, if he were occasionally sceptical, and thought it, as he says in Don Juan, - a pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float Like Pyrrho, in a sea of speculation,' yeths waverinounted to a disbelief in Christianity.'" THE LIFE OF GEORQGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xix In the autumn of 18_1, the noble bard removed to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his residence in the Lanfranchi Palace, and engaged in an intrigue with the beautiful Guiccioli wife of the count of that name, which connexion, with more than his usual constancy, he maintained, for nearly three years; during which period the countess was separated from her husband, on an application from the latter to the Pope. The following is a sketch of this" fair enchantress," as taken at the time the liaison was formed between her and Byron. "The countess is twenty-three years of age, though she appears no more than seventeen or eighteen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, large, dark, and languishing, are shaded by the longest eye-lashes in the world; and her hair, which is ungathered on her head, plays over her falling shoulders in a profusion of natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much embonpoint for her height; but her bust is perfect. Her features want little of possessing a Grecian regularity of outline; and she has the most beautiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is impossible to see without admiring-to hear the Guiccioli speak without being fascinated. Her amiability and gentleness show themselves in every intonation.of her voice, which, and the music of her perfect Italian, give a peculiar charm to everything she utters. Grace and elegance seem component parts of her nature. Notwithstanding that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the exile and poverty of her aged father sometimes affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melancholy on her countenance, which adds to the deep interest this lovely woman creates. Her conversation is lively, without being learned; she has read all the best authors of her own and the French language. She often conceals what she knows, from the fear of being thought to know too much, possibly fromn being aware that Lord Byron was not fond of blues. He is certainly very much attached to her, without being actually in love. HIis description of the Giorgioni in the Manfrini Palace at Venice is meant for the countess. The beautiful sonnet prefixed to the Propheey of -Dante was addressed to her." It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried life than Lord Byron led at this period, in the society of a few select friends. Billiards, conversation, or:reading, filled up the intervals till it was time to take the evening drive, ride, and pistolpractice. He dined at half an hour after sunset, then drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guiccioli's father, passed several hours in her society, returned to his palace, and either read or wrote till two or three in the morning; occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic complaint to which he was, or fancied himself, subject. While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a serious affray occurred, in which he was personally concerned. Taking his usual ride with some friends, one of them was violently jostled by a serjeant-major of hussars, who dashed at full speed through the midst of the party. They pursued and overtook him near the Piaggia gate; but their remonstrances were answered only by abuse and menace, and an attempt on the part of the guard at the gate to arrest them. This occasioned a severe scuffle, in which several of Lord Byron's party were wounded, as was also the hussar. The consequence was, that all Lord Byron's servants (who were warmly attached to him, and had shown great ardour in his defence), were banished from Pisa; and with them the Counts Gamba, father and son. Lord Byron was himself advised to leave it; and as the countess accompanied her father, he soon after joined them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at Monte Nero. His return to Pisa was occasioned by a new persecution of the Counts Gamba. An order was issued for THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. them to leave the Tuscan states in four days; and after their embarkation for Genoa, the countess and Lord Byron openly lived together at the Lanfranchi Palace. It was at Pisa that Byron wrote Werner, a tragedy; the Deformed Transformed; and continued his Don Juan to the end of the sixteenth canto. Lord Byron's friendship for Leigh Hunt, the late editor of the Ervaminer, was increased by his grateful feeling for the manner in which Mr. Hunt stood forward in his justification at a time when the current of public opinion ran strongly against him. This feeling induced him to invite Mr. Hunt to the Lanfranchi Palace, where a suite of apartments was fitted up for him. On his arrival in the spring of 1822, —a periodical publication was projected under the title of the Liberal, of which Hunt was to be the editor, and to which Lord Byron and the celebrated-though yet less celebrated than he merits-poet Shelley (who was on terms of great intimacy with his lordship) were to contribute. Three numbers of the Liberal were published in London, when, in consequence of the unhappy fate of Mr. Shelley (who perished in the Mediterranean by the upsetting of a boat), and of other discouraging circumstances, it was discontinued. The enmity between Byron and Southey, the poet-laureate, is as well known as that between Pope and Colley Cibber. Their politics were diametrically opposite, and the noble bard regarded the bard of royalty as a renegade from his early principles. It was not, however, so much on account of political principles that the enmity between Byron and Southey was kept up. The peer, in his satire, had handled the epics of the laureate "too roughly," and this the latter deeply resented. Whilst travelling on the continent, Southey observed Shelley's name in the album at Moat Anvert, with AOEos written after it, and an indignant comment in the same language written under it; also the names of some of Byron's other friends. The laureate, it is said, copied the names and the comment, and, on his return to England, reported the whole circumstances, and hesitated not to conclude that Byron was of the same principles as his friends. In a poem he subsequently wrote, called the Vision of Judgment, he stigmatised Lord Byron as the father of the "Satanic school of poetry." His lordship, in a note appended to the 2Two Poscari, retorted in a severe manner, and even permitted himself to ridicule Southey's wife, the sister of Mrs. Coleridge, they having been at one time "milliners of Bath." The laureate wrote an answer to this note in the Courier newspaper, which, when Byron saw it, enraged him so much, that he consulted with his friends whether or not he ought to go to England to answer it personally. In cooler moments, however, he resolved to write the Vision of Judgment, a parody on Southey's; and it appeared in one of the numbers of the Liberal, on account of which Hunt, the publisher, was prosecuted by the "Constitutional Association," and found guilty. As our readers may be curious to know the rate at which Lord Byron was paid for his productions, we annex the following statement, by Mr. Murray the bookseller, of the sums given by him for the copyrights of most of his lordship's works: Childe Harold, I. II....... 600 - - -,III....... e 1575, IV.... 2100: Giaour...... 525 Bride of Abydos.... 25 Corsair.... 525 Lara.. 700 THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xxi Siege of Corinth... ~ 525 Parisina..... 525 Lament of Tasso... 315 Manfred. 315 Beppo.... 525 Don Juan, I. II.... -.. 1525 ~ ), III. IV. V..... 1525 Doge of Venice...... 1050 Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari.... 1100 Mazeppa....... 525 Prisoner of Chillon.. 525 Sundries..... 450 Total. ~15,455 Several years ago, Lord Byron presented his friend, MIr. Thomas Moore, with his Memoirs, written by himself, with an understanding that they were not to be published until after his death. 3/r. Moore, with the consent and at the desire of Lord Byron, sold the manuscript to Mr. Murray, the bookseller, for the sum of 2000 guineas. The following statement by Mr. Moore will, however, show its fate: " Without entering into the respective claims of Mr. Murray and myself to the property in these memoirs (a question which, now that they are destroyed, can be but of little moment to any one), it is sufficient to say that, believing the manuscript still to be mine, I placed it at the disposal of Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. Leigh, with the sole reservation of a protest against its total destruction; at least, without previous perusal and consultation among the parties. The majority of the persons present disagreed with this opinion, and it was the only point upon which there did exist any difference between us. The manuscript was accordingly torn and burnt before our eyes, and I immediately paid to Mr. Murray, in the presence of the gentlemen assembled, 2000 guineas, with interest, &c., being the amount of what I owed him upon the security of my bond, and for which I now stand indebted to my publishers, Messrs. Longman and Co. Since then, the family of Lord Byron have, in a manner highly honourable to themselves, proposed an arrangement, by which the sum thus paid to Mr. Murray might be reimbursed me; but from feelings and considerations which it is unnecessary here to explain, I have respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their offer." As is the case with many men in affluent circumstances, Byron was at times more than generous, and at other times what might be called mean. HIe once borrowed 5001. in order to give it to the widow of one who had been his friend; he frequently dined on five pauls, and once gave his bills to a lady to be examined, because he thought he was cheated. He paid 10001. for a yracht, which he sold again for 3001., and refused to give the sailors their jackets. It ought, however, to be observed, that generosity was natural to him, and that his avarice, if it can be so termed, was a mere whim or caprice of the moment-a character he could not long sustain. He once borrowed 1001. to give to Coleridge, the poet, the brother-in-law of Southey, when in distress. In his quarrel with the laureate he was provoked to allude to this circumstance, which certainly he ought not to have done. Byron was a great admirer of the Waverley novels, and never travelled without them. "They are," said he to Captain Medwin, one day, " a. library in themselves, a perfect literary treasure. I could read them once a-year with new pleasure." During that xxii THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. morning he had been reading one of Sir Walter's novels, and delivered, according to Medwin, the following criticism: " How difficult it is to say anything new I Who was that voluptuary of antiquity who offered a reward for a new pleasure? Perhaps.all nature and art could not supply a new idea." The motives which ultimately induced Lord Byron to leave Italy and join the Greeks, struggling for emancipation, are sufficiently obvious. It was in Greece that his high poetical faculties had been first fully developed. It was necessarily the chosen and favourite spot of a man of powerful and original intellect, of quick and sensible feelings, of varied information, and who, above all, was satiated with common enjoyments, and disgusted with what appeared to him to be the formality and sameness of daily life. Dwelling upon that country, as it is clear from all Lord Byron's writings he did, with the fondest solicitude, and being an ardent, though perhaps not a very systematic lover of freedom, he could be no unconcerned spectator of its revolution. As soon as it seemed to him that his presence rfiight be useful, he prepared to visit once more the shores of Greece. Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and arrived in Cephalonia in the early part of August, 1823, attended by a suite of six or seven friends, in an English vessel (the l]ereules, Captain Scott), which he had chartered for the express purpose of taking him to Greece. His lordship had never seen any of the volcanic mountains, and for this purpose the vessel deviated from its regular course, in order to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay off that place a whole night, in the hopes of witnessing the usual phenomena; but, for the first time within the memory of man, the volcano emitted no fire. The disappointed poet was obliged to proceed, in no good humour with the fabled forge of Vulcan. Greece, though with a fair prospect of ultimate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled state. The third campaign had commenced, with several.instances of distinguished success: her arms were everywhere victorious, but her counsels were distracted. Western Greece was in a critical situation; and although the heroic MIarco Botzaris had not fallen in vain, yet the glorious enterprise in which he perished only checked, but did not prevent, the advance of the Turks towards Anatolica and Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy of the best days of Greece, hailed with transport Lord Byron's arrival in that country; and his last act, before proceeding to the attack in which he fell, was to write a warm invitation to his lordship to come to Missolonghi. In his letter, which he addressed to a friend at Missolonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost the first proceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, which was the arming and provisioning of forty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the defence of Missolonghi. After the battle Lord Byron transmitted bandages and medicines, of which he had brought a large store from Italy, and pecuniary succour to those who had been wounded. He had already made a generous offer to the government. He says, in a letter, "I offered to advance a thoiisand dollars a month for the succour of Missolonghi, and the Suliotes under Botzaris (since killed); but the government have answered me through -, of this island, that they wish to confer with me previously, which is in fact saying they wish me to spend my money in some other direction.. will take care that it is for the public cause, otherwise I will not advance a para. The opposition say they want to cajole me, and the party in power say the others wish to seduce me; so between the two I have a difficult part to play. However, I will have nothing to do with the factions, unless to reconcile them, if possible." THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xxiii Lord Byron established himself for some time at the small village of Metaxata, in Cephal.onia, and despatched two friends, Mr. Trelawney and Mr. Hamilton Browne, with a letter to the Greek government, in order to collect intelligence as to the real state of things. His lordship's generosity was almost daily exercised in his new neighbourhood. He provided for many Italian families in distress, and even indulged the people of the country in paying for the religious ceremonies which they deemed essential to their success. While at Metaxata, an embankment, near which several persons had been engaged digging, fell in, and buried some of them alive. He was at dinner when he heard of the accident; starting up from table, he ran to the spot, accompanied by his physician. The labourers employed in extricating their companions soon became alarmed for themselves, and refused to go on, saying they believed they had jug out all the bodies which had been covered by the rubbish. Byron endeavoured to force them to continue their exertions; but finding menaces in vain, he seized a spade and'began to dig most zealously, when the peasantry joined him, and they succeeded in saving two more persons from certain death. In the mean while, Lord Byron's friends proceeded to Tripolitza, and found Colocotroni (the enemy of Mavrocordato, who had been compelled to flee from the presidency) in great power: his palace was filled with armed men, like the castle of some ancient feudal chief; and a good idea of his character may be formed from the language he held. He declared that he had told Mavrocordato that, unless he desisted from his intrigues, he would put him on an ass, and whip him out of the Morea; and that he had only been withheld from doing so by the representation of his friends, who had said that it would injure the cause. They next proceeded to Salamis, where the congress was sitting; and Mir. Trelawney agreed to accompany Odysseus, a brave mountain chief, into Negropont. At this time the Greeks were preparing for many active enterprises. Marco Botzaris' brother, with his Suliotes, and Mavrocordato, were to take charge of Missolonghi, which at that time (October, 1823) was in a very critical state, being blockaded both by land and sea. "There have been," says Mr. Trelawney, "thirty battles fought and won by the late Marco Botzaris and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut. A few thousand dollars would provide ships to relieve it: a portion of this sum is raised; and I would coin my heart to save this key of Greece 1" A report like this was sufficient to show the point where succour was most needed; and Lord Byron's determination to relieve Misso]onghi was still more decidedly confirmed by a letter which he received from Mavrocordato. Mavrocordato was at this time endeavouring to collect a fleet for the relief of Missolonghi, and Lord Byron generously offered to advance 400,000 piastres (about 12,0001.) to pay for fitting it out. In a letter in which he announced this noble intention, he alluded to the dissensions in Greece, and stated that if these continued, all hope of a loan in England, or of assistance from abroad, would be at an end. " I must frankly confess," he says in his letter, "that unless union and order are confirmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain; and all the'assistance which the Greeks could expect from abroad, an assistance which might be neither trifling nor worthless, will be suspended or destroyed; and, what is worse, the great powers of Europe, of whom no one xxiv THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. was an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to favour her in consenting to tlhe establishment of an independent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks are unable to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, themselves undertake to arrange your disorders in such a way as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, and that are indulged by your friends. And allow me to add once for all, I desire the well-being of Greece, and nothing else; I will do all I can to secure it; but I cannot consent, I never will consent, to the English public or English individuals being deceived as to the real state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, depends on you. You have fought gloriously: act honourably towards your fellow-citizens and towards the world, and then it will no more be said, as has been repeated for 2000 years with the Roman historian, that Philopoemen was the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself (and it is difficult to guard against it in so difficult a struggle) compare the Turkish pagha with the patriot Greek in peace, after you have exterminated him in war." The dissensions among the Greek chiefs evidently gave great pain to Lord Byron, whose sensibility was keenly affected by the slightest circumstance which he considered likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. "For my part," he observes, in another of his letters, " I will stick by the cause while a plank remains which can be honourably clung to: if I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' conduct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier Mussulmans." In a letter to his banker at Cephalonia he says: "I hope things here will go well, some time or other; I will stick by the cause as long as a cause exists." His playful humour sometimes broke out amidst the deep anxiety he felt for the success of the Greeks. IHe ridiculed with great pleasantry some of the supplies which had been sent out from England by the Greek committee. In one of his letters, after alluding to his having advanced 40001., and expecting to be called on for 40001. more, he says: " How can I refuse, if they (the Greeks) will fight, and especially if I should happen to be in their company? I therefore request and require that you should apprise my trusty and trustworthy truste'e and banker, and crown and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the honourable, that he prepare all monies of mine, including the purchase-money of Rochdale manor, and mine income for the year A.D. 1824, to answer and anticipate any orders or drafts of mine, for the good cause, in good and lawful money of Great Britain, &c. &c. &c. May you live 1000 years! which is 999 longer than the Spanish Cortes constitution." When everything was arranged, two Ionian vessels were ordered; and, embarking his horses and effects, Lord Byron sailed from Argostoli on the 29th of December. At Zante his lordship took a considerable quantity of specie on board, and proceeded towards Missolonghi. Two accidents occurred in this short passage. Count Gamba, who accompanied his lordship from Leghorn, had been charged with the vessel in which the horses and part of the money were embarked. When off Chiarenza, a point which lies between Zante and the place of their destination, they were surprised at daylight on finding themselves under the bows of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, to the activity displayed on board Lord Byron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she escaped, while the other was fired at, brought to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamba and his companions being taken before Yusuff Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of some unfortunate men whom that sanguinary chief had sacrificed the preceding year at Previsa; and their fears would most probably have been reaused, had it not been for the presence of mind displayed by THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xxv the count, who, assuming an air of hauteur and indifference, accused the captain of the frigate of a scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at and detaining a vessel under English colours; and concluded by informing Yusufi, that he might expect the vengeance. of the British government in thus interrupting a nobleman who was merely on his travels, and bound to Calamos. The Turkish chief, on recognising in the master of the vessel a person who had saved his life in the Black Sea fifteen years before, not only consented to the vessel's release, but treated the whole of the passengers with the utmost attention, and even urged them to take a day's shooting in the neighbourhood. Owing to contrary winds, Lord Byron's vessel was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, a cluster of rocks within a few miles of -Missolonghi; and while detained here he was in considerable danger of being captured by the Turks. Lord Byron was received at Mlissolonghi with enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No mark of honour or welcome which the Greeks could devise was omitted. The ships anchored off the fortress fired a salute as he passed. Prince 2Mavrocordato and all the authorities, with the troops and the population, met him on his landing, and accompanied him to the house which had been prepared for him, amidst the shouts of the multitude and the discharge of cannon. One of the first objects to which he turned his attention was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war had been carried on. The very day of his lordship's arrival was signalised by his rescuing a Turk who had fallen into the hands of some Greek sailors. The individual thus saved, having been clothed by his orders, was kept in the house until an opportunity occurred of sending him to Patras. Nor had his lordship been long at Miissolonghi before an opportunity presented itself for showing his sense of Yusuff Pacha's moderation in releasing Count Gamba. Hearing that there were four Turkish prisoners in the town, he requested that they might be placed in his hands. This being immediately granted, he sent them to Patras, with a letter addressed to the Turkish chief, expressing his hope that the prisoners thenceforward taken on both sides would be treated with humanity. Tlis act was followed by another equally praiseworthy, which proved how anxious Lord Byron felt to give a new turn to the system of warfare hitherto pursued. A Greek cruiser having captured a Turkish boat, in which there was a number of passengers, chiefly women and children, they were also placed in the hands of Lord Byron, at his particular request; upon which a vessel was immediately hired, and the whole of them, to the number of twenty-four, were sent to Previsa, provided with every requisite for their comfort during the passage. The Turkish governor of Previsa thanked his lordship, and assured him that he would take care equal attention should be in future shown to the Greeks who might become prisoners. Another grand object with Lord Byron, and one which he never ceased to forward with the most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile the quarrels of the native chiefs, to make them friiendly and confiding towards one another, and submissive to the orders of the government. He had neither time nor opportunity to carry this point to any great extent; some good was, however, done. Lord Byron landed at Missolonghi animated with military ardour. After paying the fleet,-which, indeed, had only come out under the expectation of receiving its arrears from the loan which he promised to make to the provisional government,-he set about forming a brigade of Suliotes. Five hundred of these, the bravest and most resolute of 5S gXvi THIE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. the soldiers of Greece, were taken into his pay on the 1st of January, 1824. An expedition against Lepanto was proposed, of which the command was given to Lord Byron. This expedition, however, had to experience delay and disappointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that they had found a patron whose wealth was inexhaustible, and whose generosity was boundless, determined to make the most of the occasion, and proceeded to the most extravagant demands on their leader for arrears, and under other pretences. These mountaineers, untameable in the field, and unmanageable in a town, were, at this moment, peculiarly disposed to be obstinate, riotous, and mercenary. They had been chiefly instrumental in preserving Missolonghi when besieged the previous autumn by the Turks; had been driven from their abodes; and the whole of their families were at this time in the town, destitute of either home or sufficient supplies. Of turbulent and reckless character, they kept the place in awe; and Miavrocordato having, unlike the other captains, no soldiers of his own, was glad to find a body of valiant mercenaries, especially if paid for out of the funds of another, and consequently was not disposed to treat them with harsllness. Within a fortnight after Lord Byron's arrival, a burgher refusing to quarter some Suliotes who rudely demanded entrance into his house, was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some lives were lost. Lord Byron's impatient spirit could ill brook the delay of a favourite scheme: but he saw, with the utmost chagrin, that the state of his troops was such as to render any attempt to lead them out at that time impracticable. A; The project of proceeding against Lepanto being thus suspended, at a moment when Lord Byron's enthusiasm was at its height, and when he had fully calculated on striking a blow which could not fail to be of the utmost service to the Greek cause, the unlookedfor disappointment preyed on his spirits, and produced a degree of irritability which, if it was not the sole cause, contributed greatly to a severe fit of epilepsy with which he was attacked on the 1.5th of February. His lordship was sitting in the apartment of Colonel Stanhope, talking in a jocular manner with Mr. Parry, the engineer, when it was observed, from occasional and rapid changes in his countenance, that he was suffering under some strong emotion. On a sudden he complained of a weakness in one of his legs, and rose; but finding himself unable to walk, he cried out for assistance. He then fell into a state of nervous and convulsive agitation, and was placed on a bed. For some minutes his countenance was much distorted. He, however, quickly recovered his senses, his speech returned, and he soon appeared perfectly well, although enfeebled and exhausted by the violence of the struggle. During the fit, he behaved with his usual extraordinary firmness; and his efforts in contending with, and attempting to master, the disease, are described as gigantic. In the course of the month, the attack was repeated four times; the violence of the disorder at length yielded to the remedies which his physicians advised, such as bleeding, cold bathing, perfect relaxation of mind, &c., and he gradually recovered. An accident, however, happened a few days after his first illness, which was ill calculated to aid the efforts of his medical advisers. A Suliote, accompanied by another man, and the late Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked into the Seraglio; a place which, before Lord Byron's arrival, had been used as a sort of fortress and barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they were ejected, with great difficulty, for the reception of the committee-stores, and for the occupation of the engineers, who required it for a laboratory. The sentinel on guard ordered the Suliote to retire, which being a species of motion to which Suliotes are not ac-cstomed, -the —ma-l —-arelessly —-advaneed-;-upon — wh-ieh —the — serjeant-of- th'e-guard- (a THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xxvii German) demanded his business, and receiving no satisfactory answer, pushed him back. These wild warriors, who will dream for years of a blow if revenge is out of their power, are not slow to resent even a push. The Suliote struck again, the serjeant and he closed and struggled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from his belt; the serjeant wrenched it out of his hand, and blew the powder out of the pan. At this moment, Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the fray, came up, and ordered the man to be taken to the guard-room. The Su]iote was then disposed to depart, and would have done so if the serjeant would nave permitted him. Unfortunately, Captain Sass did not confine himself to merely giving the order for his arrest; for when the Suliote struggled to get away, Captain Sass drew his sword and struck him with the flat part of it; whereupon the enraged Greek flew upon him, with a pistol in one hand and a sabre in the other, and at the same moment nearly cut off the captain's right arm, and shot him through the head. Captain Sass, who was remarkable for his mild and courageous character, expired in a few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of distinguished bravery. This was a serious affair, and great apprehensions were entertained that it would not end here. The Suliotes refused to sur.render the man to justice, alleging that he had been struck, which, in Suliote law, justifies all the consequences which may follow. In a letter written a few days after Lord Byron's first attack, to a friend in Zante, he speaks of himself as rapidly recovering. " I am a good deal better," he observes, 65 though of course weakly, The leeches took too much blood from my temples the day after, and there was some difflculty in stopping it; but I have been up daily, though not in boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken a warm bath, and live as temperately as well can be, without any liquid but water, and without any animal food." After adverting to some other subjects, the letter thus concludes: "M atters are here a little embroiled'with the Suliotes, foreigners, &c.; but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause as long as my health and circumstances will permit me to be supposed useful." Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement in health, his friends felt from the first that he ought to try a change of air. Missolonghi is a filat, marshy, and pestilential place, and, except for purposes of utility, never would have been selected for his residence. A gentleman of Zante wrote to him early in March, to induce him to return to that island for a time. To his letter the following answer was received: " I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country-house, as for all other kindness, in case nay health should require my removal; but I cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of (even supposed) utility. There is a stake worth millions such as I am; and while I can stand at all, I must stand by the cause. While I say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dissensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves; but allowance must be made for them by all reasonable people." It may be well imagined, after so severe a fit of illness, and that in a great measure brought on by the conduct of the troops he had taken into his pay and treated with the utmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no humour to pursue his scheme against Lepanto, even supposing that his state of health had been such as to bear the fatigue of a campaign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, showed some signs of repentance, and offered to place themselves at his lordship's disposal. But still they had an objection to the nature of the service: " they would not fight against stone walls!" It is not surprising that the expedition to Lepanto was no longer thought of. xxviii THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. The Izxury of Lord Byron's living at this time may be seen from the following order which he gave his superintendent of the household, for the daily expenses of his own table. It amounts to no more than one piastre: Bread, a pound and a half..... 15 paras Wine...... 7 Fish... 15 Olives.... 3 40 This was his dinner; his breakfast consisted of a single dish of tea, without milk or sugar. The circumstances that attended the death of this illustrious and noble-minded man are described in the following plain and simple statement by his faithful valet and constant follower, Mar. Fletcher: "My master," says Mr. Fletcher, " continued his usual custom of riding daily, when the weather would permit, until the 9th of April. But on that ill-fated day he got very wet, and dn his return home his lordship changed the whole of his dress; but he had been too long in his wet clothes; and the cold, of which he had complained more or less ever since we left Cephalonia, made this attack be more severely felt. Though rather feverish during the night, his lordship slept pretty well, but complained in the morning of a pain in his bones and a headache; this did not, however, prevent him from taking a ride in the afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his last. On his return, my master said that the saddle was not perfectly dry, from being so wet the day before; and observed that he thought it had made him worse. His lordship was again visited by the same slow fever; and I was sorry to perceive, on the next morning, that his illness appeared to be increasing. HIe was very low, and complained of not having had any sleep during the night. His lordship's appetite was also quite gone. I prepared a little arrowroot, of which he took three or four spoonfuls, saying it was very good, but he could take no more. It was not till the third day, the 12th, that I began to be alarmed for my master. In all his former colds he always slept well, and was never affected by this slow fever. I therefore went to Dr. Bruno and Mr. MIillingen, the two medical attendants, and inquired minutely into every circumstance connected with my master's present illness; both replied that there was no danger, and I might make myself perfectly easy on the subject, for all would be well in a few days. This was on the 13th. On the following day I found my master in such a state that I could not feel happy without supplicating that he would send to Zante for Dr. Thomas. After expressing my fears lest his lordship should get worse, he desired me to consult the doctors, which I did; and was told there was no occasion for calling in any person, as they hoped all would be well in a few days. Here I should remark that his lordship repeatedly said, in the course of the day, he was sure the doctors did not understand his disease; to which I answered,'Then, my lord, have other advice by all means.''They tell me,' said his lordship,'that it is only a common cold, which, you know, I have had a thousand times.'' I am sure, my lord,' said I,'that you never had one of so serious a nature.''I think I never had,' was his lordship's answer. I repeated my supplications that Dr. Thomas should be sent for on the 15th, and was again assured that my master would be better in two or three days. After these con THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xxix fident assurances, I did not renew my entreaties until it was too late. With respect to the medicines that were given to my master, I could not persuade myself that those of a strong purgative nature were the best adapted for his complaint; concluding that, as lihe had nothing in his stomach, the only effect would be to create pain. Indeed, this must have been the case with a person in perfect health. The whole nourishment taken by my master for the last eight days consisted of a small quantity of broth at two or three different times, and two spoonfuls of arrowroot on the 18th, the day before his death. The first time I heard of there being any intention of bleeding his lordship was on the 15th, when it was proposed by Dr. Bruno, but objected to at first by my master, who asked Mr. Millingen if there was any great reason for taking blood. The latter replied that it might be of service, but added it might be deferred till the next day; and accordingly my master was bled in the right arm on the evening of the 16th, and a pound of blood was taken. I observed at the time that it had a most inflamed appearance. Dr. Bruno now began to say, that he had frequently urged my master to be bled, but that he always refused. A long dispute now arose abotit the time that had been lost, and the necessity of sending for medical aid to Zante; upon which I was informed, for the first time, that it would be of no use, as my master would be better or no more before the arrival of Dr. Thomas. His lordship continued to get worse, but Dr. Bruno said he thought letting blood again would save his life; and I lost no time in telling my master how necessary it was to comply with the doctor's wishes. To this he replied by saying, lie feared they knew nothing about his disorder; and then, stretching out his arm, said,' Here, take my arm, and do whatever you like.' His lordship continued to get weaker, and on the 17th he was bled twice, in the morning and at two o'clock in the afternoon; the bleeding at both times was followed by fainting fits, and he would have fallen down more than once had I not caught him in my arms. In order to prevent such an accident, I took care not to permit his lordship to stir without supporting him. On this day my master said to me twice,'I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week. I know,' added his lordship,'that a man can only be a certain time without sleep, and then he must go mad, without any one being able to save him; and I would ten times sooner shoot myself than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying-I am more fit to die than people think.' "I do not, however, believe that his lordship had any apprehension of his fate till the day after the 18th, when he said,' I fear you and Tita will be ill by sitting continually night and day.' I answered,'We shall never leave your lordship till you are better.' As my master had a slight fit of delirium on the 16th, I took care to remove the pistol and stiletto which had hitherto been kept at his bedside in the night. On the 18th his lordship addressed me friequently, and seemed to be very much dissatisfied with his medical treatment. I then said,'Do allow me to send for Dr. Thomas!' to which he answered,' Do so, but be quick; I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have mistaken my disease.'Write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here.' I did not lose a moment in obeying my master's orders; and, on informing Dr. Bruno and Mr. AMillingen of it, they said it was very right, as they now began to be afraid themselves. On returning to my master's room, his first words were,' Have you sent?''I have, my lord,' was my answer. Upon which he said,'You have done right; for I should like to know what is the matter with me.' Although his lord XXX THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. ship did not appear to think his dissolution was so near, I could perceive he was getting weaker every hour; and he even began to have occasional fits of delirium. IHe afterwards said,'I now begin to think I am seriously ill; and in case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several directions, which I hope you will be particular in seeing executed.' I answered I would, in case such an event came to pass; but expressed a hope that he would live many years to execute them much better himself than I could.' To this my master replied,'No, it is now nearly over;' and then added,'I must tell you all without losing a moment.' I then said,'Shall I go, my lord, and fetch pen, ink, and paper?''Oh, my God! no; you will lose too much time, and I have it not to spare, for my time is now short,' said his lordship; and immediately after,' Now pay attention!' His lordship commenced by saying,' You will be provided for.' I begged himn, however, to proceed with things of more consequence. He then continued,'Oh, my poor dear child! my dear Ada! My God! could I but have seen her! Give her my blessing; and my dear sister Augusta and her children. And you will go to Lady Byron, and saytell her everything-you are friends with her.' His lordship seemed to be greatly affected at this moment. Here my master's voice failed him, so that I could only catch a word at intervals: but he kept muttering something very seriously for some time, and would often raise his voice: and said,' Fletcher, now if you do not execute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible.' Here I told his lordship, in a state of the greatest perplexity, that I had not understood a word of what he said; to which he replied,'Oh, my God; then all is lost, for it is now too late! Can it be possible you have not understood me?'' No, my lord,' said I;'but I pray you to try and inform me once more.'' How can I?' rejoined my master;'it is now too late, and all is over;' I said,'Not our will, but God's be done;' and he answered,'Yes, not mine be done; but I will try.' His lordship did, indeed, make several efforts to speak, but could only speak two or three words at a time, such as,' My wife! my child i my sister!-you know all —you must say all —you know my wishes.' The rest was quite unintelligible. A consultation was now held (about noon), when it was determined to administer some Peruvian bark and wine. lMNy master had now been nine days without any sustenance whatever, except what I have already mentioned. With the exception of a few words, which can only interest those to whom they were addressed,-and which, if required, I shall communicate to themselves, —it was impossible to understand anything his lordship said after taking the bark. He expressed a wish to sleep. I at one time- asked whether I should call Mr. Parry; to which he replied,'Yes, you may call him.' Mr. Parry desired him to compose himself. He shed tears, and apparently sank into a slumber. Mir. Parry went away, expecting to find him refreshed on his return; but it was the commencement of the lethargy preceding his death. The last words I heard my master utter were at six o'clock on the evening of the 18th, when he said,'I must sleep now;' upon which he lay down, never to rise again; for he did not move hand or foot during the following twenty-four hours. His lordship appeared, however, to be in a state of suffocation at intervals, and had a frequent rattling in the throat; on these occasions I called Tita to assist me in raising his head; and I thought he seemed to get quite stiff. The rattling and choking in the throat took place every half-hour; and we continued to raise his head whenever the fit came or, till six o'clock on the evening of the 19th, when I saw my master open his eyes and then shut them, but without showing any symptom of pain, or moving hand or foot. THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. xxxi'Oh, my God!' I exclaimed;' I fear his lordship is gone!' The doctors then.felt his pulse, and said,'You are right; he is gone 1'" On the day of this melancholy event, Prince lViovrocordato issued a proclamation expressive of the deep and unfeigned grief felt by all classes, and ordering every public demonstration of respect and sorrow to be paid to the memory of the illustrious deceased, by firing minute-guns, closing all the public offices and shops, suspending the usual Easter festivities, and by a general mourning and funeral prayers in all the churches. It was resolved that the body should be embalmed, and after suitable funeral honours had been performed, should be embarked for Zante, thence to be conveyed to England. Accordingly the medical men opened the body and embalmed it; and having enclosed the heart, and brain, and intestines in separate vessels, they placed it in a chest lined with tin, as there were no means of procuring a leaden coffin capable of holding the spirits necessary for its preservation on the voyage. Dr. Bruno drew up an account of the examination of the body, by which it appeared his lordship's death had been caused by an inflammatory fever. Dr. Meyer, a Swiss physician who was present, and had accidentally seen Madame de Stahl after her death, stated that the formation of the brain in both these illustrious persons was extremely similar, but that Lord Byron had a much greater quantity. On the 22d of April, 1824, in the midst of his own brigade, the troops of the government, and the whole population, the most precious portion of his honoured remains was carried to the church, where lie the bodies of Marco Botzaris and of General Normann. The coffin was a rude, ill-constructed chest of wood; a black mantle served for a pall; and over it were placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of laurel. But no funeral pomp could have left the impression or spoken the feelings of this simple ceremony. The wretchedness and desolation of the place itself, the wild and half-civilised warriors present, their deep-felt, unaffected grief, the fond recollections, the disappointed hopes, the anxieties and sad presentiments which might be read on every countenance,-all contributed to form a scene more truly affecting than perhaps was ever before witnessed round the grave of a great man. When the funeral service was over, the bier was left in the middle of the church, where it remained until the evening of the next day, guarded by a detachment of his own brigade, when it was privately carried back by his officers to his own house. The coffin was not closed till the 29th of the month. On the 2nd of May the remains of Lord Byron were embarked, under a salute from the guns of the fortress. " How different," exclaims Count Gamba, "from that which had welcomed the arrival of Byron only four months ago!" After a passage of three days, the vessel reached Zante, and the precious deposit was placed in the quarantine-louse. Here some additional precautions were taken to ensure its safe arrival in England, by providing another case for the body. On the 10th Mlay, Colonel Stanhope arrived at Zante from the Morea; and as he was on his way back to England, he took charge of Lord Byron's remains, and embarked with them on board the Florida. On the 25th of May she.sailed from Zante, on the 29th of June entered the Downs; and from thence proceeded to Stangate Creek to perform quarantine, where she arrived on Thursday, July 1. John Cam lHobhouse, Esq., and John Hanson, Esq., Lord Byron's executors, after having proved his will, claimed the body from the Florida; and under their directions it was removed to the house of Sir Edward Knatchbull, Westminster, where it lay in state several days. - xxxii THE LIFE OF GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. A few select friends and admirers of the noble bard followed his remains to the grave. As the funeral procession passed through the streets of London, a fine-looking honest tar was observed to walk near the hearse uncovered; and on being asked whether ble formed part of the cortege, he replied he came there to pay his respects to the deceased, with whom he had served in the Levant, when he made the tour of the Grecian islands. The poor fellow was offered a place by some of the servants; but he said he was strong, and had rather walk near the hearse. The interment took place on Friday, July 16th. Lord Byron was buried in the family vault, at the village of Hucknall, eight miles beyond Nottingham, and within two miles of. the venerable abbey of Newstead. He was accompanied to the grave by crowds of persons eager to show this last testimony of respect to his memory. As in one of his earlier poems he had expressed a wish that his dust might mingle with his mother's, his coffin was placed in the vault next to hers. It bore the following inscription: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron, of Rochdale, born in London,* Jan. 22, 1788, died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, April 19th, 1824. An urn accompanied the coffin; and on it wvas inscribed: Within this urn are deposited the heart, brain, &c., of the deceased Lord Byron. * Mr. Dallas says Dover. z- /~~,-ria misei, --' — _ _ ~..' _. — L' O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 1 These are our realms, no limits to their swayOur thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam~ Ours the wild life in tumult still to range Survey our empire, and behold our XLome! ]From toil to rest, and joy in every change. _ _ _ __' ~~/!G ~ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~, ~ ~ ~ i 2 - THE CORSAIR. Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; But they forgive his silence for success. Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, Whom slumber soothes not —pleasure cannot please — That goblet passes him untasted stillOh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And for his fare-the rudest of his crew And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too; The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play, Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way P And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, That for itself can woo the approaching fight, His short repast in humbleness supply And turn what some deem danger to delight; With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, "But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, And where the feebler faint-can only feel — His mind seems nourished by that abstinence. Feel-to the rising bosom's inmost core, "Steer to that shore!"-they sail. "Do this!"-'tis Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? done: No dread of death-if with us die our fees- "Now form and follow me!"-the spoil is won. Save that it seems even duller than repose: Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, Come when it will —we snatch the life of life — And all obey and few inquire his will; When lost-what recks it-by disease or strife? To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. Cling to his couch, and sicken years away; Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head.; III. Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. "A sail — a sail!"-7a promised prize to Hope! Whlile gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, Her nation-flag-how speaks the telescope? Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes control. No prize, alas! —ut yet a welcome sail: His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave: Yes-she is ours-a home-returning bark~Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, jBlow fair, thou breeze!-she anchors ere the dark. WThen Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. Already doubled is the cape-our bay For us, even banquets fond regret supply Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. In the red cup that crowns our memory; Iow gloriously her gallant course she goes And the brief epitaph in dantger's day, Her white wings flying —never from her foesWVhen those who win at length divide the prey, She walks the wters like a thing of life And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, And seems to dare the elements to strife. How had the brave who fell exulted now." Who would not brave the battle-fire-the wreckTo move the monarch of her peopled deck P II. Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, IV. Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while; Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings; Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, The sails are furled; and anchoring round she swings; And unto ears as rugged seemed a song! And gathering loiterers on the land discern In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, Her boat descending from the latticed stern. They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand;'Tis mann'd-the oars keep concert to the strand Select the arms-to each his blade assign, Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. And careless eye the blood that dims its shine; Hail to the welcome shout!-the friendly speech! Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach; While others straggling muse along the shore; The smile, the question, and the quick reply, For the wild bird the busy springes set, And the heart's promise of festivity! Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net; Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, v. With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise; The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd: Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, The hum of voices, and the-laughter loud, And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil: And woman's gentler anxious tone is heardNo matter where-their chief's allotment this; Friends'-husbands'-lovers' names in each dear Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. word: But who that CHIEF? his name on every shore " Oh! are they safe? we ask not of successIs famed and fear'd-they ask and know no more. But shall we see them? will their accents bless? With these he mingles not but to command; From where the battle roars-the billows chafe — Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. They doubtless boldly did-but who are safe? I1 THE CORSAIR. 3 Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, &nd kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!" And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, VI. To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, "Where is our chief P for him we bear report- By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, And doubt that joy-which hails our coming-short; And freshness breathing from each silver spring, Yet thus sincere-'tis cheering, though so brief; Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief: Leap into life, and sparklling woo your thirst; In pensive posture leaning onl the brand, On-cJuan!t on-fand make our purpose known. c We spake not-but a sign expressod assent. The bark he views-and tell him we would greet These Juan calls-they come-to their salute His ear with tidings he must quickly meet: ~ He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. A,~~~~~~~~~L iN~~~~~~~ liFl l:!II~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~g I I i, w, 00-, —~- -- Ch.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~zZ -Pizza,-.~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~P Frm ra t cif teymontNer onercae, Wedae otye aprac-touknw't ismod O ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ i —-- Whtlneysrage; ok aogth aeWe srne ruinie sesinrd. 0~~~~~~ Inpnie otr eaigo tebad No ot rstn-taf o ha rd an? II 117s e —2isCorad-hre-a wntal rie; Hi Ja sugt ad ol f herinen; On-Juan!-on-and make our purpose known. He spali- ce not-but a sign express'd assent.i~"tl~j4'J~'-,i~J~ The brk h view-andtell im w woul gret Thee-Jun cals-thy com-to heir alut Hi er ih idng e us qikl met e ens i si-tlbu hs is remue 4 THE CORSAIR. "These letters, Chief, are from the Greek —the Ix. spy, Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh: Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, Whate'er his tidings, we can well report In Conrad's form seems little to admire, Much that"-" Peace, peace!"-he cuts their prating Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire: short. Robust but not Herculean-to the sight Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each No giant frame sets forth his common height; Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, They watch his glance with many a stealing look, Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men; To gather how that eye the tidings took; They gaze and marvel how-and still confess But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale He read the scroll —" My tablets, Juan, hark — The sable curls in wild profusion veil; Where is Gonsalvo?" And oft perforce his rising lip reveals "In the anchor'd bark." The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. "There let him stay-to him this order bear. Though smooth his voice, and calm his general Back to your duty-for my course prepare: mien, Myself this enterprise to-night will share." Still seems there something he would not have " To-night, Lord Conrad?" seen: "Ay! at set of sun: His features' deepening lines and varying hue The breeze will freshen when the day is done. At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, My corslet-cloak-one hour-and we are gone. As if within that murkiness of mind Sling on thy bugle-see that free from rust Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefin'd; My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust; Such might it be-that none could truly tellBe the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. And give its guard more room to fit my hand. There breathe but few whose aspect might defy This let the Armourer with speed dispose; The fall encounter of his searching eye: Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes: He had the skill, when Canning's gaze would Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, seek To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, At once the observer's purpose to espy, III. And on himself roll back his scrutiny, They make obeisance, and retire in haste, Lest he to Conrad rather should betray Too soon to seek again the watery waste: Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to Yet they repine not —so that Conrad guides, day. And who dare question aught that he decides? There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, That man of loneliness and mystery, That raised emotions both of rage and fear; Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh; And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, I-ope withering fled-and Mercy sigh'd farewell! And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue; Still sways their souls with that commanding art X. That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, What is that spell, that thus his lawless train Witbin-within —'t was there the?pirit wrouglht i Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? Love shows all changes —Hate, Ambition, Guile, What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? Betray no further than the bitter smile; / The power of Thought-the magic of the Mind! The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness xhrown Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone That moulds another's weakness to its will; Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, Wields with their hands, but, still to these un- He, who would see, must be himself unseen. known, Then-with the hurried tread, the upward eye, Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. The clenched hand, the pause of agony, Such hath it been-shall be-beneath the sun That listens, starting, lest the step too near The many still must labour for the one! Approach intrusive on that mood of fear:'T is Nature's doom -but let the wretch who Then-with each feature working from the heart, toils, With feelings loosed to strengthlen-not depart: Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. That rise - convulse - contend - that freeze, Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, glow, How light the balance of his humbler pains! Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow; THE CORSAIR. 5 Then — Stracnger! if thou canst, and tremblest XI. not, Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent Behold his soul-the rest that soothes his lot! To lead the guilty-guilt's worst instrumentMark-how that lone and blighted bosom sears His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven The scathing thought of execrated years! Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. Behold-but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, Man as himself-the secret spirit free? In words too wise, in conduct there a fool; Nil,!!_______,__,ii!~: i/i',I~ liii! i If r:!i Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, He hated man too much to feel remorse, D)oom'fd by his very virtues for a dupe, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,:.To pay the injuries of some on all. And not the traitors who betray'd him still; He knew himself a villain-but he deem'd iNor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men rThe rest no better than the thing he seem'd; had left him joy, and means to give again. And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid Fear'd —shunn'd-belied-ere youth had lost her Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. force, He knew himself detested, but he knew THE CORSATIR The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded As kindle high to-night (but- blow, thou breeze!) too. To warm these slow avengers of the seas. Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt Now to Medora-Oh! my sinking heart, From all affection and from all contempt: Long may her own be lighter than thou art! Ils name could sadden, and his acts surprise; Yet was I brave-mean boast where all are brave! A\But they that fear'd him dared not to despise. Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake This common courage which with brutes we share, The slumbering venom of the folded snake: That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, The first may turn-but not avenge the blow; Small merit claims-but't was my nobler hope The last expires-but leaves no living foe;, To teach my few with numbers still to cope; Fast to the doom'd offender's form it cling, Long have I led them-not to vainly bleed: And he may crush-not conquer-still it stings! No medium now-we perish or succeed! So let it be-it irks not me to die; xII. But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. None are all evil-quickening round his heart, My lot hath long had little of my care, One softer feeling would not yet depart; But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare: Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled Is this my skill? my craft? to set at last ~By passions worthy of a fool or child; Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? Yet'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, Oh, Fate!-accuse thy folly, not thy fateAnd even in him it asks the name of Love S.,he may redeem thee still-nor yet too late." Yes, it was love-unchangeable-unchanged, Felt but for one from whom he never ranged; XIV. Though fairest captives daily met his eye, Thus with himself communion held he, till He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by; He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, There at the portal paused-for wild and soft None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. He heard those accents never heard too oft; Yes-it was Love-if thoughts of tenderness, Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, And these the notes his bird of beauty sung: Unmoved by absence, firm inevery clime, And yet-Oh more than all! —untired by time; Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, "Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Could render sullen were she near to smile, Lonely and lost to light for evermore, Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, On her one murmur of his discontent; Then trembles into silence as before. Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart; There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp Which naught removed, nor menaced to remove- Burns the slow flame, eternal-but unseen; If there be love in mortals-this was love! Which not the darkness of despair can damp, Hie was a villain-ay-reproaches shower Though vain its ray as it had never been. On him-but not the passion, nor its power, Which only proved, all other virtues gone, Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one! " Remember me-Oh! pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline: + % t % J* *The only pang my bosom dare not brave XIIi. Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. He paused a moment-till his hastening men Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 4. "Strange tidings!-many a peril have I past, "My fondest-faintest-latest accents hear: Nor know I why this next appears the last!:i Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove; d Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, Then give me all I ever ask'd-a tear, Nor shall my followers find me falter here. The first-last-sole reward of so much love!"'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate; He pass'd the portal-cross'd the corridore, And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: We'll furnish mourners for our funeral-pile. "My own Medora! sure thy song is sad —" Ay-let them slumber-peaceful be their dreams! Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams "In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? THE CORSAHIr. 7 Without thine ear to listen to my lay, My love! thou mock'st my weakness; and wouldst Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray: steel Still must'each accent to my bosom suit, My breast before the time when it must feel; My heart unhush'd - although my lips were But trifle now no more with my distress, mute! Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined, Be silent, Conrad!-dearest! come and share My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the The feast these hands delighted to prepare; wind, Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare! And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, sail And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; guess'd Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, At such as seem'ed the fairest: thrice the hill That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge: M[y steps have wound to try the coolest rill;, Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, Yes! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire: See how it sparkles in its vase of snow! And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers; And morning came-and still thou wert afar. Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears: Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, Think not I mean to chide-for I rejoice And day broke dreary on my troubled view, What others deem a penance is thy choice. And still I gazed and gazed-and not a prow But come, the board is spread; our silver lamlp Was granted to my tears —my truth-my vow! Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp: At length —'t was noon-I hail'd and blest the Then shall my handmaids while the time along, mast And join with me the dance, or wake the song; That me-t my sight-it near'd.-Alas! it pass'd! Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, Another came-Oh God!'t was thine at last? Shall soothe or lull-or, should it vex thine ear, Would that those days were over! wilt thou We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, ne'er, Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.2 My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share? Why-thou wert worse than. he who broke his Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a vow home To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now; As bright as this invites us not to roam: Or even that traitor chief-I've seen thee smile, Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, I only tremble when thou art not here; Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while: Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, Which flies from love and languishes for strife- Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than How strange that heart, to me so tender still, dread, Should war with nature and its better will!" Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main: And he deceived me —for —he came again!" "Yea,'strange indeed-that heart hath long been changed; "Again-again-and oft again-my love! Worm-like'twas trampled-adder-like avenged, If there be life below, and hope above, Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, He will return-but now, the moments bring And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. The time of parting with redoubled wing: Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, The why-the where-what boots it now to tell? My very love to thee is hate to them, Since all must end in that wild word-farewell! So closely mingling here, that disentwined, Yet would I fain-did time allow-discloseI cease to love thee when I love mankind: Fear not-these are no formidable foes; Yet dread not this-the proof of all the past And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, Assures the future that my love will last; For sudden siege and long defence prepared: But-Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart, Nor be thou lonely-though thy lord's away, This hour again-but not for long —we part." Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay; And this thy comfort-that, when next we meet, "This hour we part!-my heart foreboded this: Security shall make repose more sweet. Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. List!-'t is the bugle"-Juan shrilly blewThis hour —it cannot be-this hour away! "One kiss-one more-another-Oh! Adieu!" Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay: Her consort still is absent, and her crew She rose-she sprung-she clung to his embrace, Have need of rest before they toil anew: Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 8 THES COR{SAIR. /li, Il!!......_?__'" H ilis..'. II R. il..?,\,, I,,''". Ne dared not raise to ] is that deelp-]lue eye, xV. THE CORSAIR. 9 l;. _~f V 11" II'i IJ.. //////://;/"P., I I. i, l.:, /1/2 till-Oh, how far!-it caughll a glimpse of him, But turn'd with sickening soul within the gateAnd then it flow'd-and phrensied seem'd to swim, "It is no dream-and I am desolate!" Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd Xv. With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. From crag to crag descending-swiftly sped "HIe's gone! - against her heart that hand is Stern Conrad down,'nor once he turn'd his head; driven, But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way Convulsed and quick-then gently raised to heaven; Forced on his eye what he weuld not survey, She look'd and saw the heaving of the main; His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, The white sail set —she dared not look again; That hailed him first when homeward firom the deep: }7., 10 THE COORSAIt:t. And she —the dim and melancholy star, Soon firmly girded on, and lightly shrug, Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung: On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 6"Call Pedro here!' — le comes -- and C'oni ad Thlere he might rest-but on Destruction's brink; bends, Yet once almost he stopp'cl-and nearly gave With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends; His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; "Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, But no-it must not be-a worthy chief Words of high trust and truth are graven there; May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: And sternly gathers all his might of Imind: In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall Again he hurries on-and as he healrs shine The clang of tumiult vibrate on his ears, On our return-till then all peace be thine!" The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar; Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, Fiash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, stroke, The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge Around the waves' phosphoric 3 brightness broke; That mute adieu to those who stem the surge; They gain the vessel-on the deck he stands, And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, Shrieks the shrill whistle -ply the busy handsHe marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. IHe marks how well the ship her helm obeys, Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, How gallant all her crew-and deigns to praise. IHe feels of all his former self possest; His eyes of pride to yoLung Gonsalvo turn — H-Ie bounds-he ilies —until his footsteps reach Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn? The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, There checks his speed; but pauses less to breathe And live a moment o'er the parting hour; The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, She-his iMedora —did she mark the prow? Than there his wonted statelier step renew; Ah! never loved he half so much as now! Nor rush, distnrb'd by haste, to vulgar view::But nmuch mustr yete be done ere dawn of dayFor well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, Again he mrans himself and turns aw-ay; By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud; I)own to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, His was the lofty port, the distant mien, And there unfolds his plan —his means-and ends; That seenls to shun tile sight-and awes if seen: 1 Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, And all that speaks and aids the naval art; That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy; They to the midniight watch protract debate; All these he wielded to command assent: To anxious eyes what hour is ever late? But where he wished to win, so well unbent, 3M'eantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew; And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, When echo'd to the heart as from his own To gain their port - long - long ere morning His deep yet tender melody of tone: smileBut such was foreign to his wonted mood, And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay b.te cared not what he soften'd, but subdued; Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. The evil passions of his youth had made Count they each sail-and mark how there supine Him value less who loved-than what obey'd. The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, XVII. And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie; Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, Before him Juan stands —" Are all prepared " That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. Then rose his band to duty-not from sleep"They are-nay more —embark'd: the latest boat Eqnlipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep; Waits but my chief-" While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, " y sword, and my capote." And calmly talk'd-and yet he talk'd of blood! THE CORSAIR. 11 Conosceste i dubiosi desiri N?-D-aise' A.dHis summon'd prows collect along the coast. IN Coron's bay floats many a galley light, And great the gathering crews, and loud the beast; Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, Already shared the captives and the prize, For Seyd, the Paeha, makes a feast to-night: Though far the distant foe they thus despise; A feast for promised triumph yet to come,'T is but to sail.-no doubt to-morrow's Sun When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home; Will see the Pirates bound-their haven won! This hathshe sworn by Alla and his sword, }Meantime the wateh may slumber, if they will, And faithful to his firman anmd his word, Nor only wake to war, but dreamning kill.'~~~~~~~~~~~~~'"~~~~~~~~\I" 4,~ a And falithful to his firmazn aand his wTordl, No~r only wakae to ivar, but dc~reanjing krill. 12 THE CORSA~LL. Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek "Thy capture where and when?" To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek; "From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, How wvell such deed becomes the turban'd brave — The Saick was bound; but Alla did not smile To bare the saklre's edge before a slave! Upon our course —the Moslem-merchant's gains Infest his dwelling-but forbear to slay, The Rovers won: our limbs have worn their chains. Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, And do not deign to smite because they may! Beyond the wandering freedom Ewhich I lost; Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, At length a fisher's humble boat by night To keep in practice for the coming foe. Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight: Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, I seized the hour, and find my safety hereAnd they who wish to wear a head must smile; With thee —most mighty Pacha! who can feart P For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. " Iow speed the outlaws? stand they well prepare(d Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard. II. Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd Iiigh in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd; To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?" Around-the bearded chiefs he came to lead. Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — " Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, Forbidden draughts,'t is said, he dared to quaff, That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy; Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,4 I only heard the reckless waters roar, The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use; Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; The long Chibouque's5 dissolving cloud supply, I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, While dance the Almhnas 6 to wild minstrelsy. Too bright-too blue —for my captivity; The rising morn will view the chiefs embark; And felt-that all -which Freedom's bosom cheers, But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark: Must break my chain before it dried my tears. And revellers may more securely sleep This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, On silken couch than o'eri the rugged deep, They little deem of aught in peril's shape; Feast there who can-nor combat till they must, Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance And less to conquest than to Korans trust; That leads me here —if eyed with vigilance: And yet the numbers crowded ini his host The careless guard that did not see me fly, Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast, May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. Pacha!-my limbs are faint-and nature craves IFood for my hunger, rest from tossing waves: With cautious reverence from the outer gate, Permit my.absence —-peace be with tlhee! Peace Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, Writh all around! —now grant repose-release." Bows his bent head-his hand salutes the floor, Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore: "Stay, Dervise! I have more to question-stay, "A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest I do command thee —sit-dlost hear?-obey! Escaped, is here-himself would tell the rest."7 More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring; lie took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting: And led the holy man in silence nigh. The supper done-prepare thee to reply, His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, Clearly and full-I love not mystery." His step was feeble, and his look deprest; Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years,'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan; Vow'd to his God-his sable locks he wore, Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest, And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er: And less respect for every fellow guest. Around his form his loose long robe was thrown,'T was but a moment's peevish hectic past And wrapt a breast bestow'd on Heaven alone; Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, He sate him down in silence, and his look He calmly met the curious eyes that sca{in'd; Resumed the calmness which before forsook: And question of his coming fain would seek, The feast was usher'd in-but sumptuous fare Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, iv. Methinlks he strangely spares the rich repast. "Whence conl'st thou, Dervise P"' EFrom the outlaw's den, " What ails thee, Dervise? eat —dost thou suppose A fugitive —" This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes? THE CU11tSAIR. 13 Whlly dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge, The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spreaO, Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head: Makes even contending. tribes in peace unite, Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelmed with rage, surAnd hated hosts seem brelthren to the sight! " prise, Retreats before him, though he still defies. " Salt seasons dainties-and my food is still No craven he-and yet he dreads the blow, The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill; So much confusion magnifies his foe! And my stern vow and order's I laws oppose His blazing galleys still distract his sight, To break or mingle bread with friends or foes; He tore his beard, and foaming fled. the fight; It may seem strange- -if there be aught to dread, For now the pirates passed the Haram gate, That peril rests upon my single head; And burst within —and it were death to wait; But for thy sway-nay more-thy Sultan's throne, Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeliin I taste nor bread nor banquet-save alone; throws Infiniged our order's rule, the Prophet's rage The sword aside —in vain-the blood o'erflowsi To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din " [Well-as thou wilt-ascetic as thou art- Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, One question answer; then in peace depart. Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. How many P-Ha!-a it cannot sure be day P They shout to find him grim and lonely there, What star-what sun is bursting on the bay? A glutted tiger mangling in his lair! It shines a lake of fire!-away-away! But short their greeting-shorter his replyIo! treachery! my guards! my scimitar! "'T is well-but Seyd escapes-and he must die —'The galleys feed the flames-and I afar! Miuch hath been done-but more remarns to doAccursed Dervise!-these thy tidings-thou Their galleys blaze —why not their city too?" Some villain spy-seize-cleave him-slay him now: v. Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, Quick at the word-they seized him each a torch, Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight: And fire the dome fiom minaret to porch. Up rose that Dervise-not in saintly garb, A stern delight was fixed in Conrad's eye, But like a warrior bounding on his barb, But sudden sunk-for on his ear the cry Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away- Of women struck, and like a deadly knell Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray! Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, "Oh! burst the Haram-wrong not on your lives More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom One female form-remember-we have wives. Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, On them such outrage Vengeance will repay; Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. MiYan is our foe, and such't is ours to slay; The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow But still we spared-must spare the weaker prey. Of flames on high, and torches firom below; Oh! I forgot-but Heaven will not forgive The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell- If at my word the helpless cease to live: For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell- Follow who will-I go-we yet have time Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell! Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves I e climbs the crackling stair - he bursts the Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves; door, Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor; Thea seize that Dervise!-seize on Zatanai!9 His breath choked gasping with the volumed He saw their terror —checked the first despair smoke, That urged him but to stand and perish there, But still from room to room his way he broke. Since far too early and too well obey'd, They search —they find —they save: with lusty The flame was kindled ere the signal made; arms'I-e saw their terror-from his baldric drew Each bears a prize of unregarded charms; His bugle-brief the blast-but shrilly blew: Cahlm their loud fears; sustain their sinking frames'T is answer'd —" Well ye speed, my gallant crew! With all the care defenceless beauty claims: Why did I doubt their quickness of career. So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, And deem design had left me single here?" And check the very hands with gore imbrued. Sweeps his long arm —that sabre's whirling sway But who is she? whom Conrad's arms convey Sheds fast atonement for its first delay; From reelring pile and combat's wreck-awayCompletes his fury what their fear begun, Who but the love of him he dooms'to bleed? And makes the many basely quail to one. The Haraml queen-but still the slave ef Seyd! '14 __ __ THE COtlSAItR. vii. a i His followers faint by freshenfing foes repelled.: Seemd gentler then than Seyd in fondest nood. "One effort-one-to break the eirelin- host!"'The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd. the slave They form-unite-charge-waver-all is lost! Must seem delio-hted. with the heart he gave; Within a narrower ring, compress'd, beset, The Corsair v on d. protection, soothed af -ight, Hopeless, not-heartless, strive and struggle yet- As i hi. s homo'm' were a woman's right. THE CORSAIL. 15 The wish is wrong-nay, worse for female-vain: " Oh! water-water!"-smiling IHate denies Yet much I long to view that chief again; The victim's prayer-for if he drinks-he dies. If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, This was his doom: —the Leech, the guard, were gene, The life-my loving lord relmemlber'd not!" And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. VIII. / I X. And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread,'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grewBut gather'd breathing from the happier dead; It even were doubtful if their victim knew. Far from his band; and battling with a host ~There is a war, a chaos of the mind, That deem righnt dearly won the field he lost,'WVrhen all its element convulsed-combinedFell'd-bleeding-baffied of the death he soughti, Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought; And gnashing with impenitent Remorse; Preserved to linger and to. live in vain, That juggling fiend —who never spake before — While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, But cries'" I warn'd thee!" when the deed is o'er. And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent, A But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye May writhe-rebel —the weak alone repent! I Would doom him ever dying-n-e'er to die! Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, And, to itself, all-all that self reveals, When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law! No single passion, and no ruling thought'T is he indeed-disarm'd but undeprest, That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought; His sole regret the life he still possest; But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — IIis wounds too slight, though taken with that Awill, All rushing through their thousand avelues, Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, kill. Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; Oh were there none, of all the many given, The joy untasted, the contempt or hate To send his soul-he scarcely ask'd to heaven P'aias' those who fain woould triumph in our fate; Must he alone of all retain his breath, The hopeless past, the hasting future driven Who more than all had striven and struck for dealt P Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven; He deeply felt —what mortal hearts must feel, Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd nol When tlius reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, So keenly till tehat hour, but ne'er forgot; For crimes committed, and the victor's thre;t Things lig'ht or lovely in their acted time, Of lingering tortures to repay the debt- But now to stern reflection each a crime; He deeply, darkly felt; but evil pride The witherilg sense of evil unreveal'd, That led to perpetrate-now nerves to hide. Not canliering less because the more conceal'dStill in his stern and self-collected mien All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, That opening sepulchre-the naked heart Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, But few that saw —so calmly gazed around: To snatch the imirror from the soul-and break. Though the far-shouting of the distant crowd, Ay —Pride can veil, anid Courage brave it all, Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, All-all-before-beyond-the deadliest fall. The better warriors who beheld him near, Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, Insulted not the foe who taught them fear; The only hypocrite deserving praise: And the grim guards that to his durance led, Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies: In silence eyed him with a secret dread. But he who looks on death-and silent dies. So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, IX. He half-way meets him should he menace near! The Leechl was sent-but not in mercy —there, To note how much the life yet left coulc bear; X. -- r. He found enough to load with heaviest chain, In the high chamber of his highest tower. And promise feeling for the wrench of pain: Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. To-morrow-yea-to-morrow's evening sun. His palace perish'd in the flame-this fort Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, Contain'd at once his captive and his courr. And rising with the wonted blush of morn Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same: — Of torments this the longest and the worst, Alone he sate-in solitude and scann'd WThich adds all other agony to thirst, His guilty bosom, but thlat breast he mann'd: That day by day death still forbears to slake, One thought alone he could not-dared not meev.5While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. "Oh, how these tidings will M'[edora greetP?",.__.... — -- - --- ---- - 16 THE CORSAIR. Then —only then-his clanking hands he raised, I This said, with lang uor to his mat he crept, And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed; And, whatso'cr lhis visions, quickly slept. But soon he found-or feign'd-or dream'd relief,'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, And smiled in self-derison of his grief, For Conrad's plans matmred, at once were done: "And now come torture when it will-or may, And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, aMore need of rest to nerve me for the day!" She scarce nhad lei an uncommitted crime. j/i IIm iI! J tii 1t t' Dis-uEised -discover'd - conqLerini- -ta'en -con- He slept in calmest seering for his breath ///f!J / l A chief on land-an outlaw on the deep He slept-Who o'er his placid slumber bends? Destroying-saving-prison'd and asleep! His foes are gone and he-re he hath no friends; Ei CORSAIL. 17 Is it some seraph secat to grant himi grace? X 1II. No,'t is an earthly ferm with heavenly face! She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, Its white arm raised a lamp —yet gently hid, While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid And mine in restlessness are wandering hereOf that closed eye, which opens but to pain, What sudden spell.hath made this man so deal? And once -unclosed —but once may close again. True —' tis to him my life, and more, I owe, That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, And me and mine he spared from worse than woe: And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair;'T is late to. think-but soft —his slumber breaksWith shape of fairy lightness-naked foot, lHow heavily he sighs!-he starts —awakes!" That shines like snow, and falls on earth as muateThrough guards and dnunest night how came it I He raised his head-and dazzled with the light, there? His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare H? Ie moved his hand-the grating of his chain Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare! Too harshly told him that he lived again. She could not sleep-and while the Pacha's rest 6What is that form? if not a shape of air, In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-g-est, Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair'!" She left his side- his signet-ring she bore, Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before-' Pirate! thou know'st me not-but I am one, And with it, scarcely qnestion'd, won her way Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done; Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. Look on me-and remember her, thy hand Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; band. And chill and nodding at the turret door, I I come through darkness-and I scarce know whyThey stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more:! Yet not to hurt-I would not see thee die." Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. CIf so, kind lady!.thine the only eye 8 Q a-zo E'~ —-= —2- WON —I8~4r- ~ ~ -,'~~... 18 THE COPSAIR. That would not here in that gay hope delight: But yet-thou lov'st-and —Oh! I envy those Theirs is the chance-and let them use their right. Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, But still I thank their courtesy or thine, IWho never feel the void-the vwandering thouLgh t That would confess me at so fair a shrine!" That sighs o'er visions —such as mine hath wrought." Strange though it seem-yet with extremest grief "Lady-methought thy love was his, for whom Is link'd a mirth-it doth not bring relief- This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, And smiles in bitterness —-but still it smiles;'My love stern Seyd's! Oh-No-No-not my loveAnd sometimes with the wisest and the best, Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove Till even the scaffold'2 echoes with their jest! To meet his passion-but it would not be. Yet not the joy to which it seems akin- I felt-I feel-love dwells with-with the free. It may deceive all hearts, save that within. I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 1Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now To share his splendour, and seem very blest! A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: Oft must my soul the question undergo, And these his accents had a sound of mirth, Of-' Dost thou love?' and burn to answer,' No!' As if the last he could enjoy on earth; Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain, Yet'gainst his nature —for through that short life, And struggle not to feel averse in vain; Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, strife. And hide from one-perhaps another there. He takes the hand I give not-nor withholdXIV. Its pulse nor check'd-nor quicken'd-calmly cold: " Corsair! thy doom is named —but I have power And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight To soothe the Pacha in his wealker horr. From one I never loved enough to hate. Thee would I spare-nay more-would save thee now, No warmth these lips return by his imprest, But this-time —hope-nor even thy strength allow; And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. But all I can, I will: at least, delay Yes- had I ever proved that passion's zeal, The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. The change to hatred were at least to feel: More now were ruin-even thyself were loth But still-he goes unmourn'd-returns unsoughtThe vain attempt should bring but doom to both." And oft when present-absent from my thought. Or when reflection comes, and come it must" Yes!-loth indeed: —my soul is nerved to all, I fear that henceforth't will but bring disgust; Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall: I am his slave-but, in despite of pride, Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. Of flightt from foes with whom I could not cope: Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease! Unfit to vanquish-shall I meanly fly, Or seek another and give mine release, The one of all my band that would not die? But yestei'day-I could have said, to peace! Yet there is one-to whom my mlemory clings, Yes-if unwonted fondness now I feign, Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. iRemember-captive!'t is to break thy chain; My sole resources in the path I trod Repay the life that to thy hand I owe; Were these-my bark-my sword-my love -my To give thee back to all endear'd below, God.! W ho share such love as I can never know. The last I left in youth-He leaves me now- Farewell-morn breaks-and I must now away: And Man but works His will to lay me low.'T will'cost me dear-but dread no death to-day!" I have no thought to mock His throne with prayer Wrunag from the coward crouching of despair; xv. It is enough —I breathe-and I can bear. She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, My sword i- -:haken from the worthless hand And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, That might have better kept so true a brand; And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. My bark is sunk or captive —but my love- And was she here? and is he no'w' alone? For her in sooth my voice would mount above: WThat gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind,- The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, And this will break a heart so more than kind, That starts at once-bright-pure-from Pity's mine, And blight a form-till thine appear'd, Gulnare! Already polish'd by the hand divine! Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear"Thou lov'st another then?-but what to me In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! I this-'t is nothing-nothing e'er can be: That weapon of her wedkness she can wield, THE COltSAIR. 19 To save, subdue-at once her spear and shield: XVI. Avoid it-Virtue ebbs and WVisdom errs,'T is morn-and o'er his alter'd features play Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers! ZThe beams-without the hope of yesterday. What lost a world, and bade a hero fly P W~hat shall he be ere night? perchance a thing The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven; By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, By this-how many lose not earth —but heaven! WVhile sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, Chill-wet-and misty round each stiffen'd limb, And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe. R Plefreshing earth- reviving all but him!i.I, \ # " Comine vedi-ancor non mI'abjbandlonIa." —D~.TE. | SLow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, I O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, Along Morea's hills the setting sun; Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, On old ~Egina's rock, and Idrais isle, But one unclouded blaze of living light! The god of gladness sheds his parting smile: r;-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I /M\ \\1\III1 MU~ BOut one unclouded blazea of livring light I The god of gladnessx sbeds his patrting smile THE CORSAIR. O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shinl, Spell-bound withinl the clustering Cyclades T Though there his altars are no more divine. Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, Descending fast the mountain shadows lki:s His Corsair's isle was once thine own domainThy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis! Would that with freedom it were thine again! Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, III And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, The Sun hath sunk-and, darker than the night, Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven; Sinks with its beam upon the beacon heightTill, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Medora's heart-the third day's come and goneBehind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. With it he comes not-sends not-faithless one! The wind was fair though light; and storms were On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, none. When-Athens! here thy Wisest look'd his last. Last eve Anselmllo's bark return'd, and yet How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, His only tidings that they had not met! That closed their murder'd sage's'3 latest day! Though wild, as now, far different were the tale Not yet-not yet-Sol pauses on the hill — Had Conrad waited for that single sail. The precious hour of parting lingers still; But sad his light to agonising eyes, The night-breeze freshens-she that day had pass'd And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast; Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, Sadly she sate-on high-Impatience bore The land, where Phcebus never firomn'd before; At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, But ere he sank below Citheron's head, And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray The cup of woe was quaff'd-the spirit fled; That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away: The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly- She saw not-felt not this-nor dared depart, WEho lived and died, as none can live or die! Nor deem'd it cold —her chill was at her heart; Till grew such certainty from that suspenseBut to! from high IHymettus to the plain, His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense! The queen of night asserts her silent reign.'" No murky vapour, herald of the storm, It came at last-a sad and shatter'd boat, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form; Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought; With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, Some bleeding-all most wretched-these the fewThere the white column greets her grateiil ray, Scarce knew they how escaped-this all they knew. And, bright around with quivering beams beset, In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret: His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate: The groves of olive scatter'd dark and vide Somethiing they would have said; but seem'd to feal Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, To trnst their accents to Medora's ear. The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, She saw a t once, yet sank not-trembled notThe gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,"5 Belieath t.hat grief, tlhat loneliness of lot, And, dun and sombre'mid the holy calm, AWithin that meek fair form, were feelings high, Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, TThat deemr'd not till they found their ene'gry. All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye- While yet was Hope-they soften'd-flutter'dAnd dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. weptAll lost-that softness died not-but it slept; Again the IEgean, heard no more afar, And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; "W ~ith nothing' left to love-there's nought to dread." Again his waves in milder tints unfold'T is more than nature's; like the burning might Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Delirium gathers from the fever's height. Mix'd awith the shades of many a distant isle, That frown -where gentler ocean seems to smile.' "Silent you stand —nor would I hear you tell What-speak not-breathe not-for I know it iwell —. II.'Yet would I ask almost my lip denies Not no wv my theme —why turn my thoughts to thee The —quick your answer-tell me where he lies." Oh! who can look along thy native sea, Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, "Lady! we know not-scarce with life we fled; So much its magic must o'er all prevail? But here is one denies that he is dead: Who that beheld that Sunl upon thee set, He saw him bound; and bleeding-but alive." Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? Not he-whose heart nor time nor distance fiees, She heard no further-'t was ill vainl to strive THE CORSAIR. 21!"11.,,. — I!I stood; In that wild council words wa alc' /i, -, _ Her own dark soul these words at once subdued: With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge; She totters-falls-and senseless had the wave All, save repose or flight: still lingering there Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave; Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; But that with hands though rude, yet weeping Whate'er his fate-the breasts he form'd and led, eyes, i Will save him living, or appease him dead. They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies: Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few, Dash o'er her death-like cheek the ocean dew, Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. iraise-fan-sustain-till life returns anew; Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave v. That fainting form o'er which they gaze and Writhin the Haram's secret chamber sate grieve; Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, The tale too tedious-when the triumnph short. Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; 22 THE CORSAIR Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined Thee from the flames, whichi better far-but-no — Surveys his brow —would soothe his gloom of I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — mind: Now,'t is thy lord that warns —deceitful thing! While many an anxious glance her large dark eye I(now'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? Sends in its idle search for sympathy, In words alone I am not wont to chafe:.fis only bends in seeming o'er his beads,'7 Look to thyself-nor deem thy falsehood safe!" But inly views his victim as he bleeds. He rose-and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, "Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu: Sits Triumph —Conrad taken —fall'n the rest! Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhoodHis doom is fix'd-he dies: and well his fate Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued; Was earn'd-yet much too worthlless for thy hate: And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! Methinks, a short release, for ransom told When soft could feel, and when incensed could With all his treasure, not unwisely sold; dare. Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard- Iis doubts appear'd to wrong —nor yet she knew W~ould that of this my Pacha were the lord! How deep the root from whence compassion grewWThile baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray- She was a slave-from such may captives claim W5atch'd-follow'd-he were then an easier prey; A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; But once cut off-the remnant of his band Still half unconscious- heedless of his wrath, Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." Again she ventured on the dangerous path, Again his rage repell'd-until' arose "Gulnare!-if for each drop of blood a gem That strife of thought - the source of woman's Were offer'd rich as Stamaboul's diadem; woes! If for each hair of his a massy mine Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; vi. If all our Arab tales divulge or dream Meanwhile —long anxious —weary-still-the same Of wealth were here-that gold should not redeem! Roll'd day and night-his soul could never tameIt had not now redeem'd a single hour, This fearful interval of doubt and dread, But that I know himn fetter'd, in nmy power; When every hour might doom him worse than And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still dead, On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." When every step that echo'd by the gate Might entering lead where axe and stake await; "Nay, Seyd! —I seek not to restrain thy 1 ige, When every voice that grated on his ear Too justly moved for mercy to assuage; Might be the last that he could ever hear; My thoughts were only to secure for thee Could terror tame-that spirit stern and high His riches-thus released, he were not free: IHad proved unwilling as unfit to die; Disabled, shorn of half his might and band,'T was worn-perhaps decay'd-yet silent bore His capture could but wait thy first command." That conflict deadlier far than all before: The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, "lHis capture cotld! —and shall I then resign Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quatl; One day to him —the wretch already mine P But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, Release my foe!-at whose remonstrance?-thine! To pine, the prey of every changing mood; Fair suitor!-to thy virtuous gratitude, To gaze on thine own heart; and meditate That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, Too late the last to shun-the first to mendNo doubt-regardless if the prize were fair, To count the hours that struggle to thine end, My thanks and praise alike are due-now hear! With not a friend to animate, and tell I have a counsel for thy gentler ear: To other ears that death became thee well;.- I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. And blot life's latest scene with calumny; Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly P Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear; - Thou need'st not answer-thy confession speaks, But deeply feels a single cry would shame, Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks; To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim; Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware: The life thou leav'st below, denied above'T is not his life alone may claim such care! By kind monopolists of heavenly love; Another word and-nay-I need no more. And more than doubtful paradise-thy heaven Accursed was the moment when he bore Of earthly hope-thy loved one from thee riven. l.. _ ---— _. l — THE CORSAIR. 23 Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, ~Why should I seek?-hath misery made thee blind And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain: - To the fond workings of a woman's mind! And those sustain'd he-boots it well or ill? And must I say? albeit my heart rebel Since not to sink beneath, is something still! With all that woman feels, but should not tellBecause-despite thy crimes-that heart is moved: VII. It fear'd thee-thankd thee-pitied-madden'dThe first day pass'd-he saw not her-Gulnare- loved. The second-third —and still she came not there; Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, But what her words avouch'd, her charms had Thou lov'st another-and I love in vain; done, Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, Or else he had not seen another sun. I rush through peril which she would not dare. The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, Came storm and darkness in their mingling nmigbt: Were I thine own-thou wert not lonely here: Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, An outlaw's spouse-and leave her lord to roam! That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep; What hath such gentle dame to' do with home? And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, But speak nct now-o'er thine and o'er my head toused by the roar of his own element! Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread; Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, i If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; Receive this poinard-rise-and follow me!" And now its dashing eclho'd on his ear, A long known voice-alas! too vainly near! "Ay-in my chains! my steps will gently tread, Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly loud, W7'Tith these adornments, o'er each slumbering head! Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud; Thou hast forgot-is this a garb for flight? And-flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, Or is that instrument more fit for fight?" To him more genial than the midnight star: Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, "Misdoubtiing Corsair.' I have Sgai'd the guard, And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd A single word of mine removes that chain: One pitying flash to mar the form it made: AWithout some aid how here could I remain? His steel and impious prayer attract alike- Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, The storm roll'd onward, and disdained to strike; If in aug;ht evil, for thy sake the crime: Its peal wax'd fainter -ceased —he felt alone, The ie-'t is none to punish those of Seyd. As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan! That hated tyrant, Conrad-he must bleed! I see thee shudder-but my soul is changedVIII. Wrong'd, spurn'd, revilect —and it shall be avengedThe midnight pass'd-and to the massy door Accused of what-till now my heart disdain'd — A light step came-it paused-it moved once more; Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: Yes, smile!-but he had little cause to sneer,'T is as his heart foreboded-that fair she! I was not treacherous then-nor thou too dear Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, But he has said it-and the jealous well, And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, Yet changed since last within that cell she came, Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame: I never loved-he bought me-somewhat highOn him she cast her dark and hurried eye, Since with me came a heart he could not buy. Which spoke before her accents-" Thou must die! I was a slave unmurmuring: he hath said, Yes, thou must die —there is but one resource, But for his rescue I with thee had fled. The last-the worst-if torture were not worse."''T was false thou know'st - but let such augurs rue, "Lady! I look to none-my lips proclaim Their words are omens Insult renders true. What last proclaimed they-Conrad still the same: Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life. to spare, This fleeting grace was only to prepare And change the sentence I deserve to bear? New torments for thy life, and my despair. Well have I earn'd-nor here alone-the meed Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." Would fain reserve me for his lordly will; When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, "WYhy should I seek? because —Oh! didst thou There yawns the sackl-and yonder rolls the sea. not. What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? To wear but till the gilding frets away P 24 THE CORSAIR. I saw thee-loved thee-owe thee all-would save, lie sees a dusky giillnlnlcrin —siall he seek If but to shb.ow lo grateful is a slave. Or shum that ray so indistinct and weak? Butl; had he not thus menaced fame and life, Chance guides his steps-a freshness seems to bear (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) Full on his brow, as if from morning airI still had saved thee-but the Pacha spared. He reached an open gallery-on his eye Now I am all thine own-for all prepared: Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky: Thou lov'st me not-nor know'st-or but the worst. Yet scarcely heeded these-another light Alas! this love-that hatred are the first- From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. Oh! couldst thou prove my truth, thou would'st not Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door start, iReveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart, With hasty step a figure outward past,'T is now the beacon of thy safety-now Then paused-and turn'd-and paused-'t is She at It points within. the port a Mainote prow: last! But in one chamber, where our path must lead, No poniard in that hand-nor sign of illThere sleeps-he must not wake-the oppressor "Thanks to that softening heart - she could not Seyd!" ill!" Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye "Gulnare-Gulnare-I never felt till now Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. M/y abject fortune, wither'd fame so low: She stopp'd-threw back her dark far-fioating hair, Seyd is mine enemy: had swept my band That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair: From earth with ruthless but with open hand, As if she late had bent her leaning head And therefore came I, in my bark of war, Above some object of her doubt or dread. To smite the smiter with the scimitar; They meet-upon her brow —unknown-forgotSuch is my weapon —not the secret knife- Her hurrying hand had left-'t was but a spotWho spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstoodThine saved I gladly, Lady, not for thi — Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime-'t is blood! Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Nowr fare thee' well -more peace be with thy x. breast! He had seen battle —he had brooded lone Night wears apace-my last of earthly rest!" O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown; He had been tempted-chastened-and the chain " Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shalie, Yet on his arms might ever there remain: And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. But ne'er from strife-captivity-remorseI heard the order-saw-I will not see- From all his feelings in their inmost forceIf thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. So thrill'd-so shudder'd every creeping vein, My life-my love-my hatred-all below As now they froze before that purple stain. Are on this cast-Corsair!'t is but a blow! That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, WTithou.t it flight were idle-how evade Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek! His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, Blood he had view'd - could view unmoved - but My youth disgraced-the long, long wasted years, then One blow shall cancel with our future fears; It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men! But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, I'11 try the firmness of a female hand. XI. The guards are gain'd-one moment all were o'ere o'er T is done-he nearly walked-but it is done.. Corsair! we meet in safety or no more; Corsair.! he perish'd-thou art dearly won. If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud All words would now be vain-away-away! Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." Our bark is tossing —'t is already day. The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, IX. And these thy'yet surviving band shall join: She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, But his glance followed far with eager eye; W7,hen once our sail forsakes this hated strand." And gathering, as he could, the links that bound His form, to curl their length, and cm:h their XII. sound, She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, pour, Hte, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. Equlpp'd for flight, her vassals-Greek and IMoor'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; That passage led; nor lamp nor guard were there: Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind! THE CORSAIR. 25 i; xIII.!xI. 9 X T -lE COR S. And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, -Ler arms are meekly folded on that breast, Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or drv. lWhich —Conrad safe-to fate resign'd the rest. She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill. "Thou may'st forgive though Aila's self detest;' Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, But for that deed of darkness what wert thou? The worst of crimes had left her woman still! IReproach men-but not yet-O! spare me now! I a n not what I seem-this fearful night XVSI. My brain bewilder'd-do not madden quite! This Conrad marlk'd, and felt —ah! could he less?-. If I had never loved-though less my guilt, Hate of that deed —but grief for tier distress; Thou hadst not lived to —hate me-if thou wilt." What she has done no tears can wash away, And Heaven must punish on its angry day: Xv. But-it was done: he knew, whate'er her guilt, She wrongs his thoughts, they more hinmself up- For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; braid And he was free! —and she for him had given Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made; Her all on earthc, and more than all in heaven! But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, They bleed within that silent cell-his breast. Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, Wllho now seem'd changed and humbled:-faint and The blue waves sport around the stern they urge; meek, Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, But varying oft the colour of her cheek A spot-a mast-a sail-an armed deck! To deeper shades of paleness-all its red Their little bark her men of watch descry, That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead! And ampler canvas woos the wind from high; He took that hand-it trembled-now too lateShe bears her down majestically near, So soft in love-so wildly nerved in hate; Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier; He clasp'd that hand-it trembled-and his own A flash is seen-the ball beyond their bow Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. " Gulnare!" —but she replied not —" dear Gulhlare! Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, She raised her eye-her only answer thereA long, long absent gladness in his glance; At once she sought and sunkl in his embrace: "'T is mine-my blood-red flag! again —again- If he had driven her from that resting-place, I am not all deserted on the main!" His had been more or less than mortal heart, They own the signal, answer to the hail, But —ood or ill —it bade her not depart. Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, "'T is Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the deek, His latest virtue then had joi:n'd the rest. Command nor duty could their transport check! Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss With light alacrity and gaze of pride, That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, They view him mount once more his vessel's side; The first, the last that Frailty stole from FaithA smile relaxing in each rugged face, To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. To lips-whose broken sighs such firagrance fling He, half forgetting danger and defeat, As he had fann'd-them freshly with his wing! Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, WNrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, XVIII. And feels he yet can conquer and command! They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. To them the very rocks appear to smile; XVI. The haven hums with many a cheering sound, These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, Yet grieve to win him back without a blow; The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, They sail'd prepar'd for vengeance.- had they And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; known Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, A woman's hand secured that deed her own, Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! She were their queen-less scrupulous are they Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. Their tacy paints the friends that trim the beams. With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home, They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare; Like Hope's gay glance fiom Ocean's troubled foam! And her, at once above-beneath her sex, WVhom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. XIX. To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, The lights are highnon beacon and from bower, She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; And'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: I L ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~tlL~~i~M i1I~ THE OORISAIR. 27 He looks in vain-'t is strange-and all remark, He knock'd, and loudly-footstep nor reply Amid so many, hers alone is dark. Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;'T is strange-of yore its welcome never fail'd, He knock'd-but faintly-for his trembling hand Nor now, perchance, exting-uish'd, only veil'd. Refused.to aid his heavy heart's dernanza. With the first boat descends he to the shore, The portal opens-'t is a well-known facen!1[ looCks imn ppa.tient on the lingering oar. But not the form he panted to embrace. O! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, Its lips are silent-twice his own essay'd, To bear him like an arrow to that height! And fail'd to frame the question they delay d; With the first pause the resting rowers gave, He snatch'd the lamip-its light will answer allHe twaits not-looks not-leaps into the wave, ]It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. -Strives through the surge, bestrides the beanle, and Hie would not wait for that reviving rayhigh As soon could he have linger'd there for day;,qceinds the path familiar to his eye. But, glimmering through the dusky corridere, Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; e Ireach'd his turret door- he paused —no soundr His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold Broke from within; and all was night around. I All that his heart believed not —et foretold! /~~..I.A' j" - A As i? sae scarcely felt, but fign'd a sleep,:ili i~t I I I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I', fi t. i _.. As jifshscrcely felf'dasee 28 THE CORSAIR. Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, And wish'd repose-but only for a while; On Grief's vain eye-the blindest of the blind! But the white shroud, and each extended tress, Which may not-dare not see-but turns aside Long-fair-but spread in utter lifelessness, To blackest shade-nor will endure a guide! + "' WVhich, late the sport of every summer wind, Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind; ~. XXIII. These-and the pale pure cheek, became the bier, His heart was form'd for softness - warp'd to But she is nothing —wherefore is he here? wrong; Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; -5 XXI. Each feeling pure-as falls the dropping dew He ask'd no question-all were answer'd now Within the grot; like that had harden'd too;,By the first glance on that still-marble brow. Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, w1t was enough-she died —what reck'd it how? P But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. The love of youth, the hope of better years, Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, rock; The only living thing he could not hate, If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. Was reft at once-and he deserved his fate, There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, But did not feel it less;-the good explore, Though dark the shade-it shelter'd —saved till For peace, those realms where guilt can never now., soar:. The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both, The proud-the wayward-who have fix'd below The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth: Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell Lose in that one their all —perchance a mite- Its tale, but slhrunk and wither'cl where it fell; But who in patience parts with all delight? And of its cold protector, blacken round Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground! ~t- Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, xxIv. In smiles that least befit who wear them most.<'TT is morn-to venture on his lonely hour Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower. -.... iiXXII. He was not there-nor seen along the shore; By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is travers'd o'er: The indistinctness of the suffering breast; Another morn-another bids them seek, WVhere thousand thoughts begin to end in one, And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; NWrhich seeks from all the refuge found in none; Mount-grotto-cavern-valley search'd in vain, No words suffice the secret soul to show, They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain: For Truth denies all eloquence to WVoe..4$ Their hope revives-they follow o'er the main. On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,'T is idle all-moons roll on moons away, And stupor almost lull'd it into rest; And Conrad comes not - came not since that So feeble now-his mother's softness crept day: To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept: Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare It was the very weakness of his brain, Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair! Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen, beside; That useless flood of grief had never been: And fair the monument they gave his bride: Nor long they flow'd-he dried them to depart, For him they raise not therecording stoneIn helpless-hopeless-brokenness of heart: His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known; i The sun goes forth-but Conrad's day is dim; He left a Corsair's name to other times, And the night cometh-ne'er to pass from him. ~ Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.'9 -I- NOTES TO THIE CORSAIR. NOTE 1, page 1. I citandas gentes providentissimus," etc., etc.-Jornandes e&d O'er the glad waters of the darkl blue sea. Rebus Geticis, c. 33. The time in this poem may seem too short for the occur- I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in rences, but the whole of the _/ZEgean isles are within a few countenance my Giaour and Corsair hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.OTE 8, page 13. NAnd-my stern vow and order's laws oppose. NOTE 2, page 7. The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, as Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. the monks. Orlando Furioso, Canto 10. NOTE 9, page 13. NOTE 3, page 10. Tliey seize that Dervise!-seize on Zatanai Around the waves' phosphorie brightness broke. Satan. By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke NOTE 10, page 13. of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by D a slight flash like sheet-lightning from the water. Ze tore his beard, ad foamingfled thefght. A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman NOTE 4, page 12. anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. "The Tholugh to the rest the sober berry's juice. Seraskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked up Coffee. his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the NOTE 5, page 12. field. NOTE 11, page 14. The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply NOTE 11, page 14. Pipe. Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare. Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the flower NOTE 6, page 12. of the pomegranate. TIFile dance the Almbas to wild sninstrelsy. ~~~~~~~~~Dancing g~irl~s. OTE 12, page 18. Tilnl even the scaffold echoes with their jest! NOTE 7, page 12. In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and A captive DeDrvise, fronm the pirate's nest Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she Esclaped, is ~he~re-hilnself zwouold tell tlhe rest. remarked, that it " was too slender to trouble the headsman It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised much." During one part of the French Revolution, it as a spy is out of nature;-perhaps so. I find something became a fashion to leave some "mot" as a legacy; and not unlike it in history. the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period'would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable "Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the size. Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his ownN 13,page 20. Ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by That closed their murder'd sage's latest day! the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset Emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be re- (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of jected as an improbable fiction; but it is a fiction which his disciples to wait till the sun went down. would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero." -Gibbon, Decline and JFall, vol. vi. p. 180. NgTTE 14, page 20. That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature, The queen of night asserts her silent reign. I shall attempt to prove by some historical coincidences The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own which I have met with since writing " The Corsair." country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of " Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, " s'enfermoit dansshorter duration. un silence menagant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage f6roce, NOTE 15, page 20. et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde indignation.-De o toutes parts cependant les soldats et les peuples accouroient; Te gleaming turret of the gay kiosk. its vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the palm is universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. without the present walls of Athens, not far from the tem-...... aple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall interEccelin toit d'une petite taille; mais tout l'aspect d venes.-Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has "Eccelin etoit d'une petite taille; mais tout l'aspect de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un soldat.-no stream at all. Son langage etoit amer, son ddportement superbe-et par NOTE 16, page 20. son seul 6gard, il faisoit trembler les plus hardis."-Sis- That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile. snondi, tome iii. pp. 219, 220. The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, " Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con- little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished queror of both Carthage and Rome), staturd mediocris, et (though printed) poem; but they were written on the spot equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus, in the Spring of 1811, and —I scarce know why - the luxurie contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidas, ad soli- reader must excuse their appearance here if he can. 80 NOTES TO THE COlSAIR. NOTaE 17, page 22. fortified island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, His on1tl bends in seeming o'er his beads. until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. he Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are in Tl'hen it was he found himself surrounded by armed men, number ninety-nine. who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor NOTE 18, page 27. developed his few noble traits; for to this man, who had And the cold flowers her colder 7hand contain'. come to destroy his life and all that was dear to him., he not nT the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on tihe only spared his life, but offered him that which would have bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young personls to made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days, place a nosegay. which was indignantly refused. IHe then, with the approaNOTE 19, pane 28 bation of his captor, returned to the city. This circurnNOTE 19, page 28. stance, and some concomitant events, proved that this band;inle'd witis one virtue, aned a thousand crimes. of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our naval force That the point of honour which is represented in one having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the instance of Conrad's character has not been carried beyond destruction of this illicit establishment could not be exthe bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some degree pected from them until augmented; for an officer of the confirmed by the following anecdote of a brother buccaneer navy, with most of the gun-boats on that station, had to in the year 1814:- retreat from an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So "Our readers have all seen the account of the enterprise soon as the augmentation of the navy authorized an attack, against the pirates of Barrataria; but few, we believe, one was made; the overthrow of this banditti has been the were informed of the situation, history, or nature of that result; and, now this almost invulnerable point and key to establishment. For the information of such as were unac- New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the quainted with it, we have procured from a friend the fol- government will hold it by a strong military force." —Fromn lowing interesting narrative of the main facts, of which he an.Americazn Newspaper. has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest In Noble's continuation of "Granger's Biographical some of our readers. Dictionary," there is a singular passage in his account of "Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of Archbishop Blackbourne; arid as in some measure connected Mexico: it runs through a rich but very flat country, until with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen cannot resist the temptation of extracting it:miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which persons can lie concealed There is something mysterious in the history and chaalmost innumerable, inwhichpersracter of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but inperfectly from the severest scrutiny. It communicates with three kr vn; amid report lakes which lie on the south-west side, and these, with the anown; and report lhs even asserted he was a buccaneer; lake of the same name, and which lies contiguous to the and that one of his brethren-iu that profession having asked, on his arrival in tEgland, what had become of his sea, where there is an island formed by the two arms of' asl1ec, on his arrival in Eagland, what had become of his this lake and thle sea. The east and west points of this old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, he is Archbishop of island were fortified in the year 1811, by a band of pirates, under the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. A large sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, which office he resigned irl 1702; but al'ter his successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, majority of these outlaws are of that class of the populationte his successor Lewis Banet's death, in 170 of the state of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. e egained it In DQmingo during the troubles there, and took ref~uge in the and, in 1714, held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. island of Cuba; and when the last war between. France and He was consecrated Bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716 Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that island and translated to York, November 2S, 1724, as a reward with the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony, according to cort scadl, for uitig Gee I. to the they entered the United States, the most of them the state Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have been of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with Cuba. They were notified by the Governor of that state grent prudence, and was equally respoctele as the guardian of the clause in the constitution which forbad the importa- of the revenues of the see. Rumour whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion for the fair sex tion of slaves; but, at the same time, received the assurance o ices of iis youth, and that a passion. for the fair sex of the Governor that he would obtain, if possible, the ap- formed an item in the list of his weaknesses; but so fa probation of the General Government for their retaining from beig convited by seventy witnesses, he does not this property. appear to have been directly criminated by one. In short, " Th e island of IBarrataria is situated about let. 29 dog 1 look upon these aspersions as the effects of mere malice. The island of 30 a., and iss remarktu aboutl.le for its I How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good a 15 min., lon. 92 deg. 30 min., and ists remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell fish with which its scholar as Iwlackbourne certainly was? ie who lld o waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de "perfect a knowledge of the classics (particularly of the Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the Greet tragedians), as to be able to read them with the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, same ease as he could Shalaspenre, must have taken great claimed the attention of the Governor of Louiisiana; and to paius to acquire tie learned language and have had both break up the establishment, he t;hought proper to strike at leisure and good masters. But lie was undoubteuly edithe head. He therefore offered a reward of 500 dollars for cated at Christ Church College, Oxford. He is allowed to the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known to the have been a pleasant rnan: this, however, was turned inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, froln his immediate against hi by it being said,'he gained more hearts connection, and his once having been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Buona- "The only voice that could soothe the passions of the parte's army, where he was a captain. The reward which savage (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable and virwas offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was tuous wife, the sole object of his love; the voice of Donna answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand. dollars for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered daughter of Philip II., King of Spain. Her dying words out a company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, sunk deep into his memory; his fierce spirit melted into and to burn and destroy all the property, and to bring to tears; and after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into the city of New Orleans all his banditti. This company, his chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and to meditate under the command of a man who had been the intimate on the vanity of human life."-J2hi.eellaneou, Fgorks of associate of this bold captain, approached very near to the Gibbons, New Edit., Svo, vol. iii., p. 473. F*x liq Io'fl, Serfs nre glad through Lara's ~,ide domain,- Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall; And slavery half forgets her feudal chain; Far checiuering o'er the pictured window, plays He, their unhoped, but urnforgotten lord- The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze; Tlhe long self-exiled chieftain is restored: And gay retainers gather ro'umd the hearth, There be b~ri-hlt faces in the bulsy llall, ] With toung'ues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. _____~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~i /~ II; tl~~~ft ~~~__ _ ~~~~;-~~~~~~~-~~~~~-~~~~~-{~j~~ Qi2c/ ~~-~~~" ~ I~ C) LAI{A~~~~1 iz CANTO T~~="lE FH'-~T' —--—;~-`. 2~ _( I. ~ -;~~~ C;T~u erf ar gld trouh Lra'swid doain Bols n te bordandbanerson he all 32 L ARA. II. And such, if not yet hardened in their courcse, The chief of Lara is return'd again: Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse, And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main? Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, V. Lord of himself; —that heritage of woe, And they indeed were changcd-'t is quickly seen., That fearful empire which the human breast Whate'er he be,'t was not what he had been: But holds to rob the heart within of rest!- That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, Writh none to check, and few to point in time And spake of passions, but of passion past; The thousand paths that slope the way to crime; The pride, but not the fire, of early days, Then, when he most required commandment, then Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; HIad Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. A high demeanour, and a glance that took It skills not, boots not step by step to trace Their thoughts from others by a single look; His youth through all the mazes of its race; And that sarcastic levity of tongue, Short was the course his restlessness had run, The stinging of a heart the world hath stun But long enough to leave him half midone. That darts in seeming playfulness around, And makes those feel that will not own the wound; IIT. All these seem'd his, and something more beneath And Lara left in youth his father-land; Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. But from the hour he waved his parting hand Ambition, glory, love, the common aim Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all That some can conquer, and that all would claim, Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, Htis sire was dust,~ his vassals could declare, Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive;'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there; And some deep feeling it were vain to trace Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. Cold in the many, anxious in the few. His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, VI. His portrait darkens iln its fading frame, Not much he loved long question of the past, Another chief consoled his destined bride, Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, The young forgot him, and the old had died; in those far.lands where he had wander'd lone, "Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir, And-as himself would have it seem —ualknown - And sighs for sables which he must not wear. Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, A hundred scutcheons decli with gloomy grace Nor glean experience from his fellow man; The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place; But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, But one is absent from the mouldering file, As hardly worth a stranger's care to know; That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. If still more prying such inquiry grew, His brow fell darker, and his words more few, IV. IIe comes at last in sudden loneliness, VII. And whence they know not, why they need not guess; Not unrejoiced to see him once again, They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er, Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; Not that he came, but came not long before: Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, No train is his beyond a single page, He mingled with the magnates of his land; Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away And saw them smile or sigh their hours away; To those that wander as to those that stay; But still he only saw, and did not share But lack of tidings from another climb The common pleasure or the general care; Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. I-e did not follow what they all pursued, They see, they recognise, yet almost deem With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd; The present dubious, or the past a dream. Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain: He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, Around him some mysterious circle thrown Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time; Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone; His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, Upon his eye sate something of reproof, Might be untaught him by his varied lot; That kept at least frivolity aloof; Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name And things more timid that beheld him near, Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame. In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear; His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; They deem'd him better than his air express'd. LARIA. a3 VIII. These deck the shore; the waves their channel make'T was strange —in youth all action and all life, In windings bright and mazy like the snake. Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; All was so still, so soft in earth and ai', Woman-the field-the ocean-all that gave You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, Secure that nought of evil could delight In turn he tried —le ransack'd all below, To walk in such a scene, on such a night! And. found his recompence in joy or woe, It was a moment only for the good: No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought So Lara deemed, nor longer there he stood, In that intenseness an escape from thouglht: But turned in silence to his castle-gate; The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed Such scene his soul no more could contemplate: On that the feebler elements hath raised; Such scene reminded himn of other days, The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky: Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that nowChain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, No-no-the storm may beat upon his brow, How woke he from the wildness of that dream? Unfelt-unsparing-but a night like this, Alas! he told not-but he did awake A night of beauty mock'd such breast as his. To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. SxI. IX. I-le turned within his solitary hall, Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, And his high shadow shot along the wall; With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, There were the painted forms of other timnes, And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day'T was all they left of virtues or of crinies, From all communion he would start away: Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults; Through night's long hours would sound his hurried And half a column of the pompous page, tread That speeds the specious tale from age to age; O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frow-n'd Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, In rude but antique portraiture around. And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. They heard, but whisper'd -" that must not be He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone known- Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, The sound of words less earthly than his own. And the high firetted roof, and saints, that there Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, They scarce knew what, but more than should have Reflected in fantastic figures grew, been. Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead, And the wide waving of his shaken plume, That still beside his open'd volume lay, Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave As if to startle all save him away? His aspect all that terror gives the grave. Why slept he not when others were at rest? Why heard no music, and received no guest? XII. All was not well, they deem'd-but where the wrong?'T was midnight-all was slumber; the lone light Some knew perchance-but't were a tale too long; Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. And such besides were too discreetly wise, Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hallTo more than hint their knowledge in sturmise; A sound-a voice-a shriek-a fearful call! But if they would-they could" —around the board, A long, loud shriek —and silence-did they hear Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. That frantic echo bur'st the sleeping car? They heard and rose, and tremulously brave x. Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; It was the night-and Lara's glassy stream They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, The stars are studding, each with imaged beam: And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, And yet they glide like happiness away; XIII. Reflecting far and fairy-like fiom high Cold as the marble where his length was laid, The immortal lights that live along the sky: Pale as the beam that o'er his features played, Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, Was L'ara stretch'd; his half-drawn. sabre near, And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fe.'; Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, Yet he was firm, or had been firm till flow, And Innocence would offer to her love. And still defiance knit his gathered brow; 10 l.~ ~ ~ ~ I~~~~~~ -- _ There live3 1lpon his lip the wish to slay; The swarthy blush recolors in his cheeks, Some half-orm'd threat in utterance thee had died, is lip reses its ed, his eye, thogh dim, Though mix'd with terror, senseles; as he la, I hey raise him, beai him: hu- n! he breathes, he speaks, There lived upon his lip the wish to sy,; The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, Some half-form'd threat in utterance theie had died, His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, Some imprecation of despairing pride; IRols wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook, lRecalls its function, but his words are strung Even in its trance the gladiator's look, In terms that seem not of his native tongue; That oft awake his aspect could disclose, Distinct but strange, enough they understand And now was fix'd in horrible repose. To deem them. accnts of another land, And such they wecre, and meant to meet an ear Not so in him; his breast had buried both, That hears him not-alas 1 that cannot hear! Nor common gazers could discern the growth Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told; xIV. They ciclke the feeble words that would unfold. His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd To know the import of the words they heard; XVII. And by the changes of his cheek and brow In him inexplicably mix'd appeared They were not such as Lara should avow, Mauch to be loved and hated, sought and feared; Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot; But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, His silence formed a theme for others' prateAnd in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, They guess'd-they gazed-they fain would know his And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem fate. To soothe avway the horrors of his dream; What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, If dream it -were, thlat thus could overthrow W~ho walked their world, his lineage only known? A breast that nleedled not ideal woe. A hater of his kind? yet some would say, With them he could seem gay amidst the gay; Xv. But own'd, that smile if oft observed and near, Whate'er his phrenzy dream'd or eye behleld, YWianed in its mirth and withered to a sneer; if yet femermber'd lne'er to be reveal'd, That smile might reach his lip, but passed not by, Rests at his hearlt: the custom'd morning came, 1None e'er could trace its laughlter to his eye: And breath'd newr vigour in his shaking frame; Yet there was softness too in his regard, And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, At times, a heart as not by nature hard, And soon the same in movement and in speech But once perceiv'd, his spirit seem'd to chide As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, Such wearkness, as unworthy of its pride, Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem Than these were wont; and if the coming night One doubt from others' half withheld esteem Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, In self-inflicted penance of a breast I-Ie to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, YWhich tenderness might once have wrung from Whose shuddering proved th7eir fear was less forgot. rest; In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl In vigilance of grief that would compel The astonish'd slaves, and sh an the fated hall; The soul to hate for having lov'd too well. The waving banner, and the clapping door; The rustling tapestry, and the echoing' floor; XVIII. The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, There was in him a vital scorn of all: The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze; As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, Aught they behold or hear their thought appals He stood a stranger in this breathing world, As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. An erring spirit from another hurled; A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped XVI. By choice the perils he by chance escaped; Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom But'soaped in vain, for in their memory yet Came not again. or Lara could assume His mind would half exult and half regret: A seeming of forgetfulness that made With more capacity for love than earth His vassals more amaz'd nor less afraid- Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored? His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord And troubled manhood followed baffled youth; Betrayed a feeling that recalled to these With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, T'hat fevered moment of his mind's disease. And wasted powers for better purpose lent; Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke And fiery passions that had poured their wrath Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke In hurried desolation o'er his path, Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'er-laboured heart And left the better feelings all at strife That ceased to beat, the look that made them start? In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; Could he who thus had suffered, so forget But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, W~hen such as saw that suffering shudder yet? He called on Nature's self to share the shame, Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd And charged all faults upon the fleshly form Too deep for words, indelible, unnmix'd She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm; In that corroding secrecy which gnaws'Till he at last confounded good and ill, The heart to show the effect. but not the cause? And half mistook for fate the acts of will: - - - Too high for comrlmonr selfishness, he could Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands At times resign his own for others' good, That mingle there in well according bands; But not in pity, not because he ought, It is a sigbht the careful brow might smoothe, But in some strange perversity of thought, And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, That swayed him onward with a secret pride And Youth forget such hour -was past on earth, To do what few or none would do beside; So springs the exulting bosom to that mlith! And this sa.me impulse would in tempting time Aiislead his spirit equally to crime; XXT. So much he soared beyond, or sunk beneath And tara gaz'd on these sedately glad, The men with whom he felt condemned to brcathe, His brow belied him if his soul was sad, And longed by good or ill to separate And his glance followed fast each fluttering fair, Timnself from all who shared his mortal state; XWhose steps of lightness woke no echo there: His mind abhorring this had fixed her throne le lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh Far from the world, in regions of her own; With folded arms and long attentive eye, Thus coldly passing all that passed below, Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his, Htis blood in temperate seeming now would flow: Ill brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this: Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glowed, At length he caught it,'tis a face unknown, But ever in that icy smoothness flouwed! But seems as searching his, and his alone;'T is true, with other men their path he wallked, Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, And like the rest in seeming dicd a.ndl talked, Who still till now had gaz'd on him unseen; Nor outraged lReason's rules by flaw nor start, At length encountering meets the mutual gaze His nmadness rwas not of the head, but heart; Of keen inquiiry, and of mute amaze; And rarely wandered in his speech, or drew. On Lara's glance emotion gathering grer, His thoughts so forth as to offend the view-. As if distrusting that the stranger threw; Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern XSIX'. Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. VWith all tlhat chilling mystery of mien, And seeming gladness to remain ulseen; xxII. He had (if'twere not nature's boon) an art "'T is he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard Of fixing memory on another's heart: Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. It was not love, perchancee-nor hate-nor aught,6'Tis he!" —"'Tis who " they question far and near, That words can image to express the thought; Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; But they who saw him did not see in vain, So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook And once beheld, would ask of him again: The general marvel, or that single look; And those to whom he spake remembered well, But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise And on the words, however light, would dwell: That sprung at first to his arrested eyes None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor rais'd Hiimself perforce around the hearer's mind; Gleaced his eye round, though still the stranger There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, gaz'd; If greeted once; however brief the date And drawing nigh, exelaim'd, with haughty sneer, That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, "''Tis he!-how came he thence — what doth he Still there within the inmost thonught he grew. here P" You could not penetrate his soul, but found, Despite your wonder, to your own he wound; XxIr. His presence haunted still; and from the breast It were too much for Lara to pass by -Ie forced an all-unwilling interest; Such question, so repeated fierce and high; Vain was the struggle in that mental net, With look collected, but with accent cold, Ilis spirit seemed to dare you to forget! More mildly firm than petulantly bold, He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial toneXX. "My name is Lara!-when thine own is known, There is a festival, where knights and dames, Doubt not my fitting answer to requite And auzght that wealth or lofty lineage claims The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. Appear-n a Ihigh-born and a wvelcomed guest'T is Lara!-further wouldst thou mark or ask P To Otho's lhall came Lara with the rest. I shun no question, and I wear no mask." The long carousal shakes the illumin'd hall, " Thou shun'st no question! Ponder-is there none Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun P And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again! Links grace and harmony in happiest chain: At least thy memory was not given in vain. LARA. 87 Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt, And half contemAptuous turn'd to pass away; Eterinity forbids thee to forget." But the stern stranger motioned him to stay. With slow and searching glance upon his face, "A word!-I charge thee stay, and answer here Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, They knew, or chose to know-with dubious look Bnt as thou wast and art-nay, frown not, lord, Hle deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, If false,'tis easy to disprove the wordH ~-l X-II-i-iAt tloull not he? whose deeds " iet Otho cherish here is polish'd guest, -a j But, as thou wast'md art, on thee loo.ks down, The wondroas tale no doubt thy tonlige can tell, Diistrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. hich thns begins so courteously and well. Art thou not he P whose deeds-" Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, "Whate'er I be, To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exWords wild as these, accusers like to thee pressed." I list no fturther- those with whom they weigh And here their wondering host bath interposedMay hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay "Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, ~~338~~~ ~LARA. This is no time nor fitting place to mar Thou-gh not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. In such from him he rarely heard command; If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home: To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best Those accents, as his native mountains dear, Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest; Awake their absent echoes in his ear, I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, Friends', kindreds', in ds', parents', wonted voice recall, Though like Count Lara now return'd alone Now lost, abjured, for one- his friend, his all: Fronm other lands, almost a stranger grown; ForI him earth now disclosed no other guide; And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth What marvel then he rarely left his side P I augur right of courage and of worth, He will not that untainted line belie, XXVI. Nor aught that knighthood may accord deny." Light was his form, and darkly delicate "To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, That brow whereon his native sun had sate, "And here our several worth and truth be tried; But had not mnnarr'd, though in his beams he I gage my life, my falchion to attest grew, fy words, so may I mingle with the blest!" The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone What answers Lara P to its centre shrunk through; His sord, in deep abstraction sudden sunk; Yet not such blush as mounts when health would The words of many, and the eyes of all show That there were gather'd seem'd on him to fall'; All the heart's hue in that delighted glow; But his were silent, his appear'd to stray But't was a hectic tint of secret care In far foigetfulness away-away- That for a burning moment fever'd there; Alas! that heedlessness of all around And the wild sparkle of his eye seemed caught Bespoke remembrance only too profound. From high, and lightened with electric thought, Th1oug'h its black orb those long low lashes fringe, XXIV. Had tempered with a melancholy tinge; "To-morrow!-ay, to-morrow!" further word Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, Than those repeated none from Lara heard; Or, if't twere grief, a grief that none should share: Upon his brow no outward passion spoke, And pleased not him the sports that please his From his large eye no flashing anger broke; age, Yet there azs something fix'd in that low tone The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page; Which show'd resolve, determined, though u1lnknow.n. For hours on Lara he would fx his glance, He seiz'd his cloak —his head he slightly bow'd, As all-.orgotten in that watchful trance; And passing Ezzelin he left the crowd; And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown Brief were his answers, and his questions none; With which that chieftain's brow would bear him His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book; down: HIis resting-place the bank that curbs the brook: It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride lie scem' d, like him he served, to live apart That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide; From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart; But that of one in his own heart secure To know no brotherhood, and take from earth Of all that he would do, or could endure. No gift beyond that bitter boon-our birth. Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good? - Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? SSVII. Alas! too like in confidence are each If aught he loved,'t was Lara; but was shown For man to trust to mortal look or speech; His faith in reverence and in deeds alone; From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern In mute attention; and his care, which guess'd Truths which it wringS the unpractiscd heart to learn. Each wish, fulfilled it ere the tongue expressed. Still there was haughtiness in all he did, XXV. A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid; And Lara called his page, and went his way- His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, Well could that stripling word or sign obey: In act alone obeys, his air commands; His only follower from those climes afar As if't was Lara's less than his desire Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star; That thus he served, but surely not for hire. For Lara left the shore from -whence he sprung, Slight were the tasks enjoined him by his lord, In duty patient, and sedate though young; To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; Silent as him he served, his fate appears To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, Above his,tation, anad beyond his years. On tomes of other times and tongues to pore; ___ _ ii i' III i~ ii filljIjI ii Ilr/i y I But ne'er to mingle with the menial tr ain, A latent fierceness that far more became ro whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, His fiery climate than his tender frnae: But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew True, in his words it broke not from his breast, No sympathy with that i familiar crew: But firom his aspect might be more than guess'd. His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. Another ere he left his mountain shore; Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, That namne repeated loud without reply, So femininely w e hite it might b espeak As unfamiliar, or, it roused agfain, Ano ther sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, Start to the sound, as but remember'd then g Hisut soulr his garb, and somethin in his gaze, Unles his'twas Lara's wonted oice that spae, SMore wild and high than woman's eye betrays; For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 10{~~~~~~~ ~LARA. XXVIII. Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem He had I Jok'd down upon the festive hall, To bohund as doubting. from too black a dream, And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all; Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, And when the crowd around and near him told Because the worst is ever nearest truth. Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, And they are gone-but Ezzelin is there, Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore With thoughtful visage and imperious air; Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, Bl)ut long remained not; ere an hour expired The colour of young lialed went and came, He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame; And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw j XXIx. The sickening iciness of that cold dew I The crowd are gone, tlle revellers at rest; That rises as the busy bosom sinks The courteous host, and all-approving guest, With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. Again to that accustom'd couch must creep Yes - there be things which we must dreanm and Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, dare, Anid man, o'erlabomu'd with his being's strife, And execute ere thought be half aware: Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life: W-hate'er might haled's be, it was enow There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. guile, l-ie gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile; That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, WAhen K(aled saw that smile his visage fell, And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. As if on something recognised right well: What better name may slumber's bed become? His memory read in such a meaning more Night's sepulchre, the universal home, Than Lara's aspect unto others wore. Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, suInk Forward he sprung —a moment, both were gone, supine, And all within that hall seem'd left alone; Alike in nflaked helplessness recline; Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, Glad for awhlile to heave unconscious breath, All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, Yet wNake to wrestle with the dread of death, That when his long dark shadow through the And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased. porch That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, least~ CANTO THE SECOND. T.L. NIGHT wanes —the vapours round the mountains'T is mornl't is noon-assembled in the hall, curl'd, The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call; Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world.'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim Man has another day to swell the past, The life or death of Lara's future fame; And lead him near to little, but his last; When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, But mighty Nature bounds as ftrom her birth, And whatso'er the tale, it must be told. The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, To meet it in the eye of man and Heaven. Health on the gale, and fresllmes in the stream. i hy comes he not P? Such truths to be divulged, Immortal man! behold her glories shine, Methiinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 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; III. And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, l'he hour is past, and Lara too is there, Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear; With self-confiding, coldly patient air; Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, WVhy comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past, Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all; And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ereast.'But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, "I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear, &nd fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. If yet he be on earth, expect him here; ---------- __ I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ LARA. 41 The roof that held him in the valley stands Whose words already might my heart have Between my own and noble Lara's lands; wrung, My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. But that some previous proof forbade his stay, I know him not-but me it seems he knew And urged him to prepare against to-day; In lands where-but I must not trifle too: The word I pledged for his I pledge again, Produce this babbler-or redeem the pledge; Or will myself redeem his knlghthood's stain." Iere in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." He ceased-and Lara answer'd, "I am here To lend at thy demand a listening ear, Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw'To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. [I!!'i IIr ____ _:' / /I'll / Ii'J11' AN I.' /II 4"lt;~ i~111i,,:I A',,, 4~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~1].2~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(, ~'1t~l'""""-~- ~'-..!,~:~ ",t 4i= ~~;1~~~-~~ —-~~~~-= —~~~~-~~ —-~~~~-"= — C~~~~~~C~~C~~C~~~C~~C~~C~~~C~~C~~C~IC~li'!!, 11~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~c~ —-- 42 -LARA. "The last alternative befits me best, Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought And thus I answer for mine absent guest." Except the absence of the chief it sought. A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd: However near his own or other's tomb; Their search extends along, around the path, With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath: Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke; But none are there, and not a brake hath borne With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn; Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, Which still retains a nmark where murder was; For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed; Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, And from his lip those words of insult fell- The bitter print of each convulsive-nail, His sword is good who can maintain them well. When agonised hands that cease to guard, Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. IA. Some such had been, if here a life was reft, Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash, But these were not; and doubting hope is left; Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash: And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, He'bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound, Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame; Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, "Demand thy life! " He answer'd not: and then Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd; From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, Again its wonted wondering to renew, For Lara's brow upon the moment grew And dye conjecture with a darker hue. Almost to blackness in its demon hue; And fiercer shook his angry falchion now'II. Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow; Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, Then all was stern collectedness and art, But not his pride; and hate no more conceal'd: Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, The friend of all who sought to work him woe, That when the approaching crowd his arm with- And from his country's justice now demands held, Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. le almost turn'd the thirsty point on those Who else than Lara could have cause to fear Who thus for mercy dared to interpose; His presence? who had made him disappear, But to a moment's thought that purpose bent; If not the man on whom his menaced charge Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, Had sate too deeply were he left at large? As if he loathed the ifeffectual strife Th6 general rumour ignorantly loud, That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life; The mystery dearest to the curious crowd; As if to search how far the wound he gave The seeming friendlessness of him who strove Had sent its victim onward to his grave. v To win no confidence, and wake no love; The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, v. The skill with which he wielded his keen blade; They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? Forbade all present question, sign, and speech; Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? The others met within a neighbouring hall, For it was not the blind capricious rage And he, incensed and heedless of them all, A word can kindle and a word assuage; The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, But the deep working of a soul unniix'd In haughty silence slowly strode away; Witlh aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd; He bacl'd his steed, his homeward path he took, Such as long power and overgorged success Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. Concentrates into all that's merciless: These, link'd with that desire which ever sways VI. Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, But where was he? that meteor of a night,'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, Who menaced but to disappear with light. Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went And he must answer for the absent head To leave no other trace of his intent. Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, In darkness, yet so well the path was worn VIII. He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay; Within that land was many a malcontent, But there he was not, and with coming day Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; LAlRA. 43 That soil full many a wringing despot saw, The moment came, the hour when Otho thounghT Who work'd his wantonness in form of law; Secure at last the vengeance which he sought: Long war without and frequent broil within His summons found the destined criminai Had made a path for blood and giant sin, Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, That waited but a signal to begin Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, New havoc, such as civil discord blends, Defying earth, and confident of heaven. Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves fiiends; Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves! Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, Such is their cry- some watchword for. the In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. fight Thus Lara had inherited his lands, Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right: And with them pining hearts and sluggish Ieligion-freedom —vengeance-what you will, hands; A word's enough to raise mankind to kill; But tlat long absence from his native clime Some factious phrase by cunning caught and Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, spread, And now, diverted by his milder sway, That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be All dread by slow degrees had worn away; fed! The menials felt their usual awe alone, But more for him than them that fear was IX. grown; Throughout thalt clime the feudal chiefs had They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first gain'd Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd And each long restless night, and silent mood, Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude: The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both: And though his lonely habits threw of late They waited but a leader, and they found Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; One to their cause inseparably bound; For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed with- By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, drew, In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. Cut off by some mysterious fate from those Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye; Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst: They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun And they who watch'd might mark that, day by Inquiry into deeds at distance done; day, By mingling with his own the cause of all, Some new retainers gather'd to his sway; E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, Hie play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host: The storm that once had spent itself and slept, Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head; His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. And is again; he only changed the scene. If this were policy, so far't was sound, Light care had he for life, and less for fame, The million judged but of him as they found; But not less fitted for the desperate game: From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, They but required a shelter, and't was given. And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. By him no peasant mourned his rifled cot, What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? And scarce the serf could murnmur o'er his lot; He raised the humble but to bend the proud. With him old avarice found its hoard secure, He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, With him contempt forbore to mock the poor; But man and destiny beset him there: Youth present cheer and promised recompense Inured to hunters, he was found at bay; Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence: And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. To hate he ofier'd, with the coming change, Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been The deep reversion of delay'd revenge; Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene; To love, long baffled by the unequal match, But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. A leader not unequal to the feud; All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim In voice-mien-gesture-savage nature'spoke, That slavery nothing which was still a name. And from his eye the gladiator broke. 44 LARA. x. And bear within them to the neighbouring state What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate: The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? Hard is the task their father-land to quit, The varying fortune of each separate field, But harder still to perish or submit. The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield? P I I. The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? vThe smoing ruin, and the crumbled wazl? It is resolved-they march-consenting Night In this the struggle was the same with all; Guides with her star their dim and torchless O * nZsuides with her star their dim and torchless Save that distemper'd passions lent their force flight: In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. Al t Alreacdy they perceive its tranquil beam None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain,lle None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream; The captive died upon the battle-slain: Alrey they descry-Is yo the bn In either cause, one rage alone possess i In either cause, one rage alone possess'd Away!'t is lined with many a hostile rank. The empire of the alternate victor's breast; Return or fy!-What glitters in the rear? And they that smote for freedom or for sway, *Tis Oho's banner-the pusers spear! D)eem'd few were slain, while more remailn'd to seem'd few weeslanwhilmorera Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? slay. |Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight: It was too late to check the wasting brand, Cut off from hope, nnd copass'd in the toil, Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land; Less blood, perchance, hath bought a richer The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, s oil And Carnage smiled upon her daily bread. spoil! XIII. XI. t -born impul sTe A moment's pause —'t is but to breathe their Fresh with the nerve the new-born imputlse band, strung, The first successg, to Lam's numers cluno';Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? The first success to Lara's numbers clung; It matters little-if they charge the foes But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, Who by their border-stream their march oppose, They form no longer to their leader's call; Solme few, perchance, may break and. pass the In blind confusion on the foe they press, line, And think to snatch is to secure success. H Towever lilnk'd to baffle such design. The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, Thre lsthf broo, a andt tothis of ate, "The charge be ours! to wait for their assault Lure on the broken brigands to thelir fate: vai n h dr a chief may doWere fate well worthy of a coward's halt." In vain he doth wrhate'er a chief may do, heth ha f a, Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, To chek the healong fkry of that crew; And the next word shall scarce outstrip the In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, deed: The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame; The way fe ae t. m, In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, ow many shall bt he the voice of dea How many shall bilt hear the v oice of death! And shown their rashness to that erring brood: The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, XIV. The long privation of the hoped supply, His blade is bared,-in him there is an air The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, A something of indifference more than then And palls the patience of his baffled heart, Becomes the bravest, if they feel for menOf these they had not deem'd: the battle-day He turn'd his eye on IKaled, ever near, They could encounter as a veteran mnay; And still too faithful to betray one fear; But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, Perchance't was but the moon's dim twilight And present death, to hourly suffering life: threw And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away Along his aspect an unwonted hue His numbers melting fast from their array; Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, The truth, and not the terror of his breast. And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent: This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his: But few remain to aid his voice and hand, It trembled not in s.uch an hour as this; And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd His eye alone proclaim'dTo mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. "We will not part! One hope survives, the frontier is not far, Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, And thence they may escape from native war; Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!" LARA. 45 The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward xv. driven,. Commanding, aiding, animating all, Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder Where foe appeared to press, or friend to fall, riven; Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel. And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel; None fled, for well they knew that flight were Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose vain, Despair to daring, and a front to foes; But those that waver turn to smite again, And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, W~hile yet they find the firmest of the foe Which runs all redly till the morning baam. Recoil before their leader's look and blow; N1~, \C' N' W MIN\\\\Q o X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~f V~!'1~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Cn / n~~l~l~~l;& \7A~l~ll Bi~Bi~i~Bi~ B ~~~ p Fi,~,~-3,,v~~; / i, 1!!~~ ~ ~~~ -i 22AzY>sp~~~B~;~ Bv;~ i~~a~~~g%~ II UYSG~,~ 46i3~~ TI~~LARA. Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, lie scarce can spealk, but motions him'tis vain, He foils their ranks, or reunites his own; And merely adds another throb to pain. Himself he spared not — once they seemed to He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, fly — And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, - Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, And shook- why sudden droops that plumed Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees; crest? Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, The shaft is sped-the arrow's in his breast! Held all the light that shone on earth for him. That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. XVIII. The word of triumph fainted from his tongue; The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung! Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield; But yet the sword instinctively retains, They would remove him, but they see'twere vain, Though firom its fellow shrink the falling reins; And he regards them with a calm disdain, These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow, That rose to reconcile him with his fate, And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, And that escape to death from living hate: Perceives not Lara that his anxious page And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage: Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, Meantime his followers charge, and charge again; And questions of his state; he answers not, Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain! Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, And turns to Kaled:-each remaining word, XVI. They understood not, if distinctly heard; Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, His dying tones are in that other tongue, The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. The war-horse masterless is on the earth, They spake of other scenes, but what-is known And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth; To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone; And near yet quivering with what life remain'd, And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, The heel that urg'd him and the hand that While gaz'd the rest in dumb amazement round: rein'd; They seem'd even then —that twain-unto the last And some too near that rolling torrent lie, To half forget the present in the past; Whose waters mock the lip of those that die; To shiare between themselves some separate fate, That panting thirst which scorches in the breath Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, In vain impels the burning mouth to crave XIX. One drop-the last-to cool it for the grave; Their words though faint were many- firom the With feeble and convulsive effort swept tone Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept; Their import those who heard could judge alone; The faint remains of life such struggles waste, From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's But yet they reach the stream, and bend to death taste: More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, They feel its freshness,. and almost partake- So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke Why pause? - No further thirst have they to The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke; slake- But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely It was an agony-but now forgot! near: But from his visage little could we guess, XVII. So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, Save that when struggling nearer to his last, Where but for him that strife had never been, Upon that page his eye was kindly cast; A breathing but devoted warrior lay: And once as Kaled's answering accents ceas'd,'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East: His follower once, and now his only guide, Whether (as then the breaking sun from high Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his And with his scarf would staunch the tides that eye, rush Or that'twas chance, or some remember'd scene With each convulsion in a blacker gush;. That rais'd his arm to point where such had been, And then as his faint breathing waxes low, Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow: As if his heart abhorred that coming day, LALA. 47 And shrunk his glance before that morning light And Kialed, though he spoke not, nor withdriew To look on Lara's brow-where all grew night. From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss; With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, For when one near display'd the absolving cross, Flung back the hand which held the sacred giti, And proffered to his touch the holy bead As if such but disturbed the expiring man, Of which his parting soul might own the need, Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, I-le look'd upon it with an eye profane, The life immortal, infinite, secure, And smiled —Heaven pardon! if'twere with disdain; To all for whom that cross hath made it sure! O.er He press'd the hand he held upon his heart- He gaz'd, as if not yet had pass'd away It beats no more, but iKaled will not part The haughty spirit of that humble clay; 4, pres'd t1e had he hld ulon hi he~t — 1 H gaz', as f not': ~)~:-. -_xx. beas n moe, ut ~zted ria no pWith the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, It beats no more, but aled will not part The haughty spirit of that humble clay; 48 ~LARA. And those around have rous'd him from his trance, When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance; And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn; And when in raising him from where he bore A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, Within his arms the form that felt no more, And hew the bough that bought his childreil's He saw the head his breast would still Sustain, food, Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain; Pass'd by the river that divides the plain He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain: The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, He heard a tramp-a horse and horseman broke But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, From out the wood-before him was a cloak Scarce breathing more than that he lov'd so well. Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, Than that he lov'd! Oh! never yet beneath Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. The breast of man such trusty love may breathe! Rous'd by the sudden sight at such a time, That trying moment hath at once reveal'd And some foreboding that it might be crime, The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd; Himself unheeded Nwatch'd the stranger's course, In baring to revive that lifeless breast, Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest; And lifting thence the burthen which he bore, And life retturn'd, and Kaled felt no shame- Heav'd up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore,3 What now to her was Womanhood or Fame? Then paus'd, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch, XXII. And still another hurried glance would snatch, And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, But where he died his grave was dug as deep; *As if even yet too much its surface show'd: Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone; mound; Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief And slung them with a more than common care. Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. Meantime the serf had crept to where unseen Vain was all question ask'd'her of the past, Himself might safely mark what this might And vain e'en menace-silent to the last; mean; She told nor whence nor why she left behind liHe caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. And something glittered starlike on the -vest, Why did she love him? Curious fool! - be But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, still- A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: Is human love the growth of human will? It rose again but indistinct to view, To her he might be gentleness; the stern And left the waters of a purple hue, Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, Then deeply disappear'd: the horseman gaz'd And when they love, your smilers guess not how Till ebbed the latest eddy it had rais'd; Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, They were not common links that form'd the chain And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain; His face was mask'd-the features of the dead, But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread; And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, XXIII. And such'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn They laid him in the earth, and or his breast, Upon the night that led to such a morn. Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul! They found the scattered dints of many a scar His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll; Which were not planted there in recent war: And charity upon the hope would dwell Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife; But all unknown his glory or his guilt, XXV. These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, And IKaled-Lara —Ezzelin, are gone, And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, Alike without their monumental stone! Return'd no more-that night appear'd his last. The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean From lingering where her chieftain's blood had XXIV. been; Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) Grief had so tam'd a spirit once too proud, A serf that cross'd the intervening vale, Her tears were few, her wailing never loud; LA.RA. 49 But furious wouldl you tear her from the spot I And she had shorn, but sav'd her raven ha.i.r, Where yet she scarce believ'd that he -was not, And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, Her eye shot forth with all the living fire And fold, and press it gently to the ground, That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire; As if she staunch'd anew some phantom's wound. But left to waste her weary moments there, Herself would question, and fAr him reply; She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, From some imagin'd spectre in pursuit; And woos to listen to her fond complaints: I Then seat her down upon some linden's root, And she would sit beneath the very tree And hide her visage with her meagre hand, Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; Or trace strange characters along the sand.And in that posture where she saw him fl.1, This could not last —she lies by him she lov'd; His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; I-ler tale untoll —her truth too dearly prov'd..~ -i / -\- /':ilili~~~~~~~iIri tp_ _ N_ ~~~~~~L~~~~~~~~~~~j~~~~~ 9~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ -C4Z( N O T E S TO I, A R A. ) NOTE 1, page 31. anxiety; but he conjectured that the duke had been atThe reader of Lara may probably regard it as a sequel tracted by some courtesan to pass the night with her, and, to a poem that recently appeared:* whether the cast of not choosing to quit the house in open day, had waited till the hero's character, the turn of his adventures, and the the following evening to return home. When, however general outline and colouring of the story, may not encour- the evening arrived, and he found himself disappointed in age such a supposition, shall be left to his determination. his expectations, he became deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries from different persons, whom he ordered to NOTE 2, page 31. attend him for that purpose. Amongst these was a man named Giorgio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some The SCifs are glad throzugh Lara's wide doinain. timber from a. bark in the river, had remained on board the The reader is advertised that the name only of Lara vessel to watch it; and being interrogated whether he had being Spanish, and no circumstance of local or national seen any one thrown into the river on the night preceding, description fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who came down country or age, the word " Serf," which could not he cor- the street, and looked diligently about, to observe whether rectly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never any person was passing. That seeing no one, they returned. vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to desig- and a short time afterwards two others came, and looked natle the followers of our fictitious chieftain. around in the same manner as the former: no person still appearing, they gave a sign to their companions, when a PNOTIE 3, page 48. man came, mounted on a white horse, having behind him a dead body, the head and arms of which hung on one side, ~And ~lifticg thlence thle biurdenr2 wlhich& hle baorXe, and the feet on the other side of the horse; the two persons Hleaved up the bansac, and dash'd it froms the sha're. on foot supporting the body, to prevent its falling. They The event in this section was suggested by;;he de- thus proceeded towards that part, where the filth of the city scription of the death, or rather burial, of the Duke of is usually discharged into the river, and turning the horse, Gandia. The most interesting and particular account of it with his tail towards the water, the two persons tiok the is given by Burchard, and is in substance as follows:-" On dead body by the arms and feet, and with all their strength the eighth day of June, the Cardinal of Valenza and the flung it into the river. The person on horseback then asked Dulke of GTandia, sons of the Pope, supped with their if they had thrown it in; to which they replied,'Signor, mother, Vanozza, near the church of S. -Pietro ad vinczud; Sit (yes, Sir). Ite then looked towards the river, and several other persons being present at the entertainment. seeing a mantle floating on the stream, he inquired what it A late hour approaching, and the cardinal having reminded was that appeared blacel, to which they answered, it was a his brother, that it was time to return to the apostolic pa- mantle; and one of them threw atones upon it, in conselace, they mounted their horses or mules, with only a few quence of which it sunk. The attendants of the pontiff attendants, and proceeded together as far as the palace of then inquired from Giorgio, why he had not revealed this Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the car- to the governor of the city; to which he replied, that he dinal that, before he rturned home, he had to pay a visit had seen in his time a hundred dead bodies thrown into of pleasure. Dismissing therefore all his attendants, ex- the river at the same place, without any inquiry being cepting his stafiere, or fbootman, and a person in a mask; made respecting them; and that he had not, therefore, conwho had paid him a visit whilst at supper, and who, during sidered it as a matter of any importance. The fishermen the space of a month, or thereabouts, previous to this time, and seamen were then collected, and ordered to search the had called upon him almost daily at the apostolic palace, rier, where, on the following evening, they found the body he tookl this person behind him on his mule, and proceeded of the duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his to the street of the Jews, where he quitted his servant, purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one of which directing him to remain there until a certain hour; when, if was in his throat, the others in his head, body, and limbs. he did not return, he might repair to the palace. The duke No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of his son, then seated the person in the mask behind him, and rode, I and that he had been thrown, like filth, into the river, than, know not whither; but in that night he was assassinated, giving way to his grief, he shut himself up in a chamber, and thrown into the river. The servant, after having been and wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Segovia, and other dismissed, was also assaulted and mortally wounded; and attendants on the pope, went to the door, and after many although he was attended with great care, yet such was his hours spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon situation, that he could give no intelligible account of what him to admit them. From the evening of Wednesday till had befallen his master. In the morning, the duke not the following Saturday the pope tookh no food; nor did he having returned to the palace, his servants began to be sleep from Thursday morning till the same hour on the alarmed; and one of them informed the pontiff of the ensuing day. At length, however, giving way to the enevening excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not treaties of his attendants, he began to restrain his sorrow, yet made his appealrance. This gave the pope no small and to consider the injury which his own health might sustain, by the further indulgence of his grief." -Roscos T tle Coersair. Leo the Tenth, vol. i., p. 265. " ~~A Fi~AGMIENT OF A TUKPoISH TALE. "One Zatal 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." /3a)~ \ ~TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS CHIARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERIVANT, LONDON, MAY, 1813. BYRON. ADVERTISEMENT. IAce tale which these disjointed fragments present, is I the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic founnded upon circumstances now less common in the East I of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back than formerly; either because the ladies are more circum- from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time spect than in the " olden time,", or because the Christians subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when N/ainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on ill inidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover. at sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful. V MV/ > "~ KLAK, No breath of air to break the wave Which, seen fonom far Colonna's height, That rolls below the Athenian's grave, Make glad the heart that hails the sight, That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff,' And lend to loneliness delight. First greets the homeward-veering skiff, There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek High o'er the land he saved in vain; Reflects the tints of many a peak When shall such hero live again? Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the Eastern wave: ] Ad if at times a transient breeze Fair clime! where every season smiles Break the blue crystal of the seas, Benignant o'er those blessed isles, Or sweep one blossom finom the trees, 8~~~H GIAOU~ No brath o airto brak te wav hic, see fro far olona's hight Thtrol elwth tena' gaeMk ga tehar ht alstesilt i "~~. idtb~WsaBenignant o'er those blessed isles, Or sweep one blossom friomn the trees, THE GIAOUTR. 5u Row welcome is each gentle air The fix'd yet tender traits that streak That wakes and wafts the odours there! The langour of the placid cheek, For there-the Rose o'er crag or vale, And-but for that sad shrouded eye, Sultana of the Nightingale,2 That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, The maid for whom his melody, And but for that chill, changeless brow, His thousand songs are heard on high, TWhere cold Obstruction's apathy4 Blooms blushing to her lover's tale; Appals the gazing mourner's heart, His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, As if to him it could impart Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Far from the winters of the West, Yes, but for these and these alone, By every breeze and season blest, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, Returns the sweets by nature given He still might doubt the tyrant's power; In softest incense back to heaven; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, And grateful yields that smiling slky The first, last look by death reveal'd!5 Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. Such is the aspect of this shore; And many a summer flower is there,'T is Greece, but living Greece no more! And many a shade that love might share, So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, And many a grotto, meant for rest, We start, for soul is wanting there. That holds the pirate for a guest; Hers is the loveliness in death, Whose bark in sheltering cove below That parts not quite with parting breath; Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, But beauty with that fearful bloom, Till the gay mariner's guitar3 That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Is heard, and seen the evening star; Expression's last receding ray, Then stealing with the muffled oar, A gilded halo hovering round decay, Far shaded by the rocky shore, The farewell beam of Feeling past away! lRush the night-prowlers on the prey, Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, And turn to groans his roundelay. Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'-ed? \ Strange-that where Nature loved to trace, earth!. As if for Gods, a dwelling-place, And every charm and grace hath mix'd Clime of the unforgotten brave! Within the paradise she fix'd, TWhose land from plain to mountain-cave There man, enamour'd of distress, Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave! Should mar it into wilderness, Shrine of the mighty! can it be And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower That this is all remains of thee? That tasks not one laborious hour; Approach, thou craven crouching slave: Nor claims the culture of his hand Say, is not this Thermopylm? To bloom along the fairy land, These waters blue that round you lave, But springs as to preclude his care, Oh servile offspring of the freeAnd sweetly woos him-but to spare! Pronounce what sea, what shore is this P Strange-that where all is peace beside, The gulf, the rock of Salamis There passion riots in her pride, These scenes, their story not unknown, And lust and rapine wildly reign ise, and make again yor own; To idarken o'er the fair domain. Snatch from the ashes of your sires It is as though the fiends prevail'd The embers of their former fires; Against the seraphs they assail'd, And he who in the strife expires And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell Will add to theirs a name of fear The freed inheritors of hell; That Tyranny shall quake to hear, So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, leae his sons a hope, a fame So curst the tyrants that destroy! u They too will rather die than shame:,- For Freedom's battle once begun, He who hath bent him o'er the dead Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, Ere the first day of death is fled, Though baffled oft is ever won. The first dark day of nothingness, Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, The last of danger and distress, Attest it many a deathless age! (Before Decay's effacing fingers While kings, irt rtusty darkness hid, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), Have left a nameless pyramid, And mark'd the mild angelic air, Thy heroes, though the general doom The rapture of repose that's there, Hath swept the column from their tomb, THE GIAOUIR. A mightier monument command, Though weary waves are sunk to rest, The mountains of their native land! There's none within his rider's breast; 2There points thy Muse to stranger's eye And though to-morrow's tempest lower, The graves of those that cannot die!'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!7'T were long to tell, and sad to trace, I know thee not, I loathe thy race, Each step from splendour to disgrace: But in thy lineaments I trace Enough —no foreign foe could quell What time shall strengthen, not efface: Thy soul, till from itself it fell; * Though young and pale, that sallow front Yes! Self-abasement paved the vway Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; To villain-bonds and despot sway. Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, What can he tell who treads thy shore? Right well I view and deem thee one No legend of thine olden time, Wlihom OQthiman's sons should slay or shun. No theme on which the muse might soar, High as thine own in days of yore, On-on he hasten'd, and he drew When man was worthy of thy clime.'LKy gaze of wonder as he flew: The hearts within thy valleys bred, Though like a demon of the night The fiery souls that might have led He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, Thy sons to deeds sublime, His aspect and his air impress'd NTow crawl from cradle to the grave, A troubled memory on my breast, Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave,s And long' upon my startled ear And callous, save to crime; Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. Staiin'd with each evil that pollutes He spurs his steced; he nears the steep, Mannkind, where least above the brutes; That, jutthfig, shadows o'er the deep; Without even savage -virtue blest, lie winds around; he hurries by; WCithout one free or valiant breast. The rock relieves him from mine eye; Still to the neighbouring ports they waft For well I ween unwelcome he Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; Whose glance is fixed on those that flee; In this the subtle Greek is found, And not a star but shines too bright For this, and this alone, renown'd. On him who takes such timeless flight. In vain miaght TLibrtry invoe e e ound along; but ere he pass'd The spirit to its bondage broke, One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, Or raise the leck that courts the yoke: A moment check'd his wheeling steed, No more her sorrows I bewail, A moment breathed him from his speed, Yet this will be a mournful tale, A moment on his stirrup stood — And they who listen may believe, Why looks he o'er the olive wood? Who heard it first had cause to grieve. The crescent glimmers on the hill, * * * * * * The Mosque's high lamps are quivermg still: Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, Though too remote for sound to wake The shadows of the rocks advancing, In echoes of the far tophaike, Start on the fisher's eye like boat The flashes of each joyous peal Of island-pirate or Mainote; Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. And fearful for his light caique, To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; He shunms the near but doubtful creek To-night, the Bairan feast's begun; Though worn -and weary with his toil, To-night-but who and what art thou And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Of foreign garb and fearful brow? Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, And what are these to thine or thee, Till Port Leone's safer shore That thou shouldst either pause or flee? Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night. He stood-some dread was on his face, * * ~* * Soon Hatred settled in its place: Who thundering comes on blackest steed, It rose not with the reddening flush With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed? Of transient Anger's hasty blush, Beneath the clattering iron's sound But pale as marble o'er the tomb, The cavern'd echoes wake around Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. In lash for lash, and bound for bound; His brow was bent, his eye was glazed; The foam that streaks the courser's side He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, Seems gather'd firon the ocean-tide: And sternly shook his hand on high, TIE GIAOUtR. 1 V-. As doubting to return or fly: O'er lhim who loves, or hates, or fears, Impatient of his flight delay'd, Such moment pours the grief of years: Here louLd his raven charger neigh'd- What felt he then, at once opprest Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade; By all that most distracts the breast? That sound had burst his waking dream, That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, As Slumbei starts at owlet's scream. Oh, who its dreary length shall date! The spur hath lanced his courser's sides; Though in Time's record nearly nought, Away, away, for life he rides: It was Eternity to Thought! Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed9 For infinite as boundless space Springs to the touch his startled steed; The thought that Conscience must embrace, The rock is doubled, and the shore Which in itself can comprehend Shakes with the clattering tramp no more; Woe without name, or hope, or end The crag is won, no more is seen His Christian crest and haughty mien. The hour is past, the Giaour is gone;'T was but an instant he restrain'd And did he fly or fall alone? That fiery barb so sternly rein'd; Woe to that hour he came or went!'Twas but a moment that he stood, The curse for Hassan's sin was sent Then sped as if by ddath pursued: To turn a palace to a tomb: But in that instant o'er his soul He came, he went, like the Simoom,~ Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, That harbinger of fate and gloom, And gather in that drop of time Beneath whose widely-wasting breat-,h A life of pain, an age of crime. The very cypress droops to death 56 THE GIAOUR. Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, To bless the sacred " bread and salt."" The only constant mourner o'er the dead! Alike must Wealth and Poverty Pass heedless and unheeded by, The steed is vanish'd fiom the stall; For Courtesy and Pity died No serf is seen in Hassan's hall; With Hassan on the mountain side. The lonely Spider's thin gray pall His roof, that refuge unto men, Waves slowly widening o'er the wall; Is Desolation's hungry den. The Bat builds in his Haram bower, The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, And in the fortress of his power Since his turban was cleft by the Infidel's sabre!12 The Owl usurps the beacon-tower; * * * * The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, I hear the sound of coming feet,' With baffled thirst, and famine, grim; But not a voice mine ear to greet; For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, More near-each turban I can scan, Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. And silver-sheathed ataghan;,s'T rwas sweet of yore to see it play The foremost of the band is seen And chase the sultriness of day, An Emir by his garb of green:'4 As springing high the silver dew " Ho! who art thou? "-" This low salamR, In whirls fantastically flew, Replies of Moslem faith I am." / And flung luxurious coolness round "The burthen ye so gently bear J The air, and verdure o'er the ground. Seems one that claims your utmost care,'T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, To view the wave of watery light, Mlly humble bark would gladly wait." And hear its melody by night. And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd "Thoei speakest sooth; thy skiff unmoor, Around the verge of that cascade; And waft us from the silent shore; And oft upon his mother's breast Nay, leave the sail still fiurl'd, and ply That sound had harmonized his rest; The nearest oar that's scattered by, And oft had Hassan's Youth along And midway to those rocks where sleep Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song; The channel'd waters dark and deep. And softer seem'd each melting tone Rest from your task-so-bravely done, Of Music mingled with its own. Our course has been right swiftly run. But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose Yet't is the longest voyage, I trow Along the brink at Twilight's close: That one of_ __ " * * * The stream that fill'd that font is fled- * * * * * The blood that warm'd his heart is shed! Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, And here no more shall human voice The calm wave rippled to the bank; Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. I watch'd it as it sank: methought The last sad note that swell'd the gale Some motion from the current caught Was woman's wildest funeral wail: Bestirr'd it more,-'t was but the beam That quenchl'd in silence, all is still, That checker'd o'er the living stream: But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill; I gazed, till vanishing from view, Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, Like lessening pebble it withdrew; No hand shall close its clasp again. Still less and less, a speck of white On desert sands't were joy to scan That genm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; The rudest steps of fellow man, And all its hidden secrets sleep, So here the very voice of Grief Known but to Genii of the deep, Might wake an Echo like relief- Which, trembling in their coral caves, At least't would say, "All are not gone; They dare not whisper to the waves. There lingers Life, though but in one"- * * * *. For many a gilded chamber's there, As rising on its purple wing Which Solitude might well forbear; The insect-queen of eastern spring,'6 Within that dome as yet Decay O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Hath slowly work'd her cankering way- Invites the young pursuer near, But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate, And leads him on friom flower to flower Nor there the Fakir's self will wait; A weary chase and wasted hour, Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, For bounty cheers not his delay; With panting heart and tearful eye: Nor there will weary stranger halt So Beauty lures the full-grown child, THE GIAOUR. 7 With hue as bright, and wing as wild;'T was then. she went as to the bath, A chase of idle hopes and fears, Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath; Begun in folly, closed in tears. PFor she was flown her master's rage If won, to equal ills betray'd, In likeness of a Georgianri page, Woe waits the insect and the maid; And far beyond the Moslem's power A life of pain, the loss of peace, Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. From infant's play and man's caprice: Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; The lovely toy so fiercely sought But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, Hath lost its charm by being caught, Too well he trusted to the slave For every touch that woo'd its stay Whose treachery deserved a grave: Hath brushed its brightest hues away, And on that eve had gone to mosque, Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, And thence to feast in his kiosk.'T is left to fly or fall alone. Such is the tale his Nubians tell, With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Who did not watch their charge too well; Ah! where shall either victim rest? But others say, that on that night, Can this with faded pinion sear By pale Phingari's trembling light, 19 From rose to tulip as before? The Giaour upon his jet black steed Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Was seen, but seen alone, to speed Find joy within her broken bower? With bloody spur along the shore, No: gayer insects fluttering by Nor maid nor page behind him bore. Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, * * * * * * And lovelier things have mercy shown Her eye's dark charm't were vain to tell, To every failing but their own, But gaze on that of the Gazelle, And every woe a tear can claim It will assist thy fancy well; Except an erring sister's shame. As large, as languislhingly dark, *; +. * d* * * But Soul beam'd forth in every spark The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, That darted from beneath the lid, Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 10 In circle narrowing as it glows, Yea, Sold, and should our Prophet say The flames around their captive close, That form was nought but breathing clay, Till inly search'd by thousand throes, By Alla! I would answer nay; And maddening in her ire, Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood,2' One sad and sole relief she knows, Which totters o'er the fiery flood, The sting she nourish'd for her foes, With Paradise within my view, Whose venom never yet was vain, And all his Honris beckoning through. Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, Oh! who young Leila's glance could read And darts into her desperate brain: And keep that portion of his creed,22 So do the dark in soul expire, Which saith that woman is but dust, Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;'7 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, On her might Muftis gaze, and own:Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, That through her eye the Immortal shone; Darkness above, despair beneath, On her fair cheek's unfading hue Around it flame, within it death!' The young pomegranate's blossoms strew 23 * * * * * Their bloom in blushes ever new; Black Hassan from the laram flies, Her hair in hyacinthine flow,24 Nor bends on woman's form his eyes; When left to roll its folds below, The unwonted chase each hour employs, As midst her handmaids in the hall Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. She stood superior to them all, Not thus was Hassan wont to fly Hath swept the marble where her feet When Leila dwelt in his Serai. Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, Doth Leila there no longer dwell? Ere from the cloud that gave it birth That tale can only Hassan tell: It fell, and caught one stain of earth. Strange rumours in our city say The cygnet nobly walkls the water; Upon that eve she fled away So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, When Rhamazan's last sun was set,:8 The loveliest bird of Franguestan! 125 And flashing from eacl minaret As rears her crest the ruffled Swan. Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast And spurns the wave with wings of pride, Of Bairam through the boundless East. W When pass the steps of stranger man 13 f58 THE GITAOUR. Along the banks that bound her tide; I Thus high and graceful was her gait; Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck: — Her heart as tender to her mate; Thus armed with beauty would she check I Her mate —stern Hassan, who was he P? Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze' Alas! that name was not for thee! Shru'nk froml the charms it meant to praise: * * * * *, 2Ciji\\i \\i uIi~IU Ill / i1/ Stern Hassan hath a journey ta en The pistols which his girdle bore With twenty vassals in his train, Were those that once a pacha wore, Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, With arquebuss and ataghan; Even robbers tremble to behold. The chief before, as deck'd for war,'T is said he goes to woo a bride Bears in his belt the scimitar More true than her who left his side; Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, The faithless slave that broke her bower, WThen in the pass the rebels stood, And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour! And few return'd to tell the tale Of what befell in Parne's vale. THE GIAOUR. 69 The sun's last rays are on the hill, Could now avail the promised prey; And sparkle in the fountain rill, Then curl'd his very beard with ire,27 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, And glared his eye with fiercer fire: Draw blessings from the mountaineer; "Though far and near the bullets hiss, Here may the loitering merchant Greek I've'scaped a bloodier hour than this." Find that repose't were vain to seek And now the foe their covert quit, In cities, lodged too near his lord, And call his vassals to submit; And trembling for his secret hoard — But Hassan's frown and furious word Here mayhe rest where none can see, Are dreaded more than hostile sword, In crowds a slave, in deserts free;.Nor of his little band a man And with forbidden wine may stain Resign'd carbine or ataghan, The bowl a Moslem must not drain. Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun! 23 * * * * * In fuller sight, more near and near, The foremost Tartar's in the gap, The lately ambusg'd foes appear, Conspicuous by his yellow cap; And, issuing from the grove, advance Conspicuous by his yellow cap; Some who on battle-charger prance. The rest in lengthening line the while *W oho leads them on with foreign brand, Wind slowly through the long defile: Above, the mountain rears a peak, Far flashing in his red right hand? Above, the mountain rears a peak, "'T is he!'t is he! I know hinm now; Where vultures whet the thirsty beak;'T is he is he I know him now; I know him by his pallid brow; And theirs may be a feast to-night, I know him by the evil eye2 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light; That aids his envious treachery; Beneath, a river's wintry stream Beneath, ariverswintrstI know him by his jet-black barb; Has shrunk before the summer beanm,.'as s n eeThough now array'd in Arnaut garb, And left a channel bleak and bare, Apostate from his own vile faithl, Save shrubs that spring to perish there: It shll ot sa him from the caith: It shall not save him from the death: Each side the midway path there lay'T is he! well uet in any hour, Small broken crags of granite gray, By time, or mountain lightning, riven From summits clad in mists of heaven; As rolls the river into ocean, ~F~or where is he t~h~at hath belheld In sable torrent wildly streaming; The peak of Liakura unveil'd? As the sea-tide's opposing motion, * * * * * * In azure column proudly gleaming, They reach the grove of pine at last: Beats back the current many a rood, "Bismillah! now the peril's past; 26 In curling foam and mingling flood, For yonder view the opening plain, While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, And there we'11 prick our steeds amain:" Roused by the blasts of winter, rave; The Chiaus spake, and as he said, Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, A bullet whistled o'er his bead; The lightnings of the waters flash The foremost Tartar bites the ground! In awful whiteness o'er the shore, Scarce had they time to check the rein, That shines and shakes beneath the roar; Swift from their steeds the riders bound; Thus-as the stream and ocean greet, But three shall never mount again: With waves that madden as they meetUnseen the foes that gave the wound, Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, The dying ask revenge in vain. And fate, and fury, drive along. With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, The bickering sabres' shivering jar; Some o'er their courser's harness leant, And, pealing wide or ringing near Half sheltered by the steed; Its echoes on the throbbing car, Some fly behind the nearest rock, The deathshot hissing from afar; And there await the coming shock, The shock, the shout, the groan of war, Nor tamely stand to bleed Reverberate along that vale, Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, More suited to the shepherd's tale: Who dare not quit their craggy screen. Though few the numbers-theirs the strife, Stern Hassan only from his horse That neither spares nor speaks for life! Disdains to light, and keeps his course, Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press, Till fiery flashes in the van To seize and share the dear caress; Proclaim too sure the robber-clan But Love itself could never pant Have well secured the only way' For all that Beauty. sighs to grant, CO THE GIAOUR. With half the fervonr Hate bestows And cleft in tiwain its firmest tfolta UJpon the last embrace of foes, His flowing robe by falchion torn, When grappling in the fight they fold And crimson as those clouds of morn Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold: That, streak'd with dusky red, portend Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith; The day shall have a stormy end; True foes, once met, are join'd till death! A stain on every bush that bore A fragment of his palampore,30 His breast with wounds unnumnber'd riven, With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, His back to earth. his face to heaven, Ycet dripping with the blood he spilt; Fall'n Hassan lies —his unclosed eye Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand Yet lowering on his enemy, Which quivers round that faithless brar}n As if the hour that seal'd his fate His turban far behind him roll'd, Surviving left his qucnchless hate; I'llA~~~1...._.':. X\ THE GIAOUR. 61 And o'er him bends that foe, with brow Whereo\ can now be scarcely read As dark as his that bled below.- The Koran verse that mourns the dead, Yes, * * * * ~ Point out the spot where Hassan fell " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, A victim in that lonely dell. But his shall be a redder grave; There sleeps as true an Osmanlie Her spirit pointed well the steel As e'er at Mecca bent the knee; TWhlich taught that felon heart to feel. As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, He called the Prophet, but his poe Or prayed with face towards the shrine, Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: In orisons resumed anew He call'd on Alla-but the word At solemn sound of Alla I-I! 33 Arose unheeded or unheard. Yet died he by a stranger's hand, Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer And stranger in his native land; Be pass'd, ahid thine accorded there? Yet died he as in arms he stood, I watch'dc my time, I leagued with these, And unavenged, at least in blood. The traitor in his turn to seize; But him the maids of Paladise My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, Impatient to their halls invite, And now I go-but go alone." And the dark heaven of bouris' eyes # * * * * + " On him shall glance for ever bright; %* * * * * * They come —their kerchiefs green they wavoe,' And welcome with a kiss the brave! The browsing camels' bells ale tinkling Who falls in battle'gainst a Giaour Hiis Mother look'd from her lattice high- Is worthiest an immortal bower. She saw the dews of eve besprinkling* * * * * * The pasture green beneath her eye, But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe She saw the planets faintly twinkling: avenging Molkir's scythe 3 "'T is twilight —sure his train is nigh." And from its torments'scape alone She could not rest in the garden-bower, To wander round lost Eblis' throne36 But gazed thronugh the grate of his steepest tower: And fire, unqueneh'd, unquenchable "Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; Nor shrink they from the summer heat; Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift The tortures of that inward hell! Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift P But first, on earth as Vampire sent37 Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And warily the steep descends, And suck the blood of all thy race; Ancd nosw within the vallefy bends; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, And he bears the gift at his saddle bow- At midnight drain the stream of life; How could I deeni his courser slow P Yet loath the banquet which perforce Right well my largess shall repay Must feed thy livid living corse: hIis welcome speed, and weary way." Thy victims, ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, The Tartar lighted at the gate, As cursing thee1 thou cursing them, But scarce upheld his fainting weight; Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. His swarthy visage spake distress, But one that for thy crime must fall, But this might be from weariness; The youngest, most beloved of all, His garb with sarguiLne spots was dyed, Shall bless thee with a father's nameBut these might be from his courser's side: That word shall wrap thy heart in fame He drew the token from his vest - Yet must thou end thy task, and mark Angel of Death!'t is Hassan's cloven crest! Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, His calpac rent-his cafta3n red-3" And the last glassy glance must view " Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed: Which fieezes o'er its lifeless blue; Me, not from mercy, did they spare, Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear But this empurpled pledge to bear. The tresses of her yellow hair, Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt: Of which in life a lock when shorn Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt." Affection's fondest pledge was worn; A* * * * * But now is borne away by thee, A turban carved in coarsest stone,332 Memorial of thine agony! A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, Wet with thine own best blood shall ifp39 ,32 THE GIAGOUIT. Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; For in it lurks that nameless spell, Then stalking to thy sullen grave, Which speaks, itself unspeakable, Go-and with Gouls and Afrits rave; A spirit yet Lmquell'd and high, Till these in horror shrink away That claims and keeps ascendancy; From spectre more accursed than they! And like the bird whose pinions quake, But cannot fly the gazing snake, " low name ye yon lone Caloyer? AWill others quail beneath his look, His features I have scann'd before Nor'scape the glance they scarce can brook. In mine own land:'tis many a year, From him the half-affrighted Friar Since, dashing by the lonely shore, When met alone would fain retire, I saw him urge as fleet a steed As if that eye and bitter smile As ever served a horseman's need. Transferr'd to others fear and guile: But once I saw that face, yet then Not oft to smile descendeth he, It was so mark'd with inward pain, And when he doth't is sad to see I could not pass it by again; That he but mocks at Misery. It breathes the same dark spirit now, How that pale lip will curl and quiver! As death were stamp'd upon his brow." Then fix once more as if for ever; "'T is twice three years at summer tide As if his sorrow or disdain Since first among our freres he came; Forbade him e'er to smile again. And here it soothes him to abide Well were it so-such ghastly mirth For some dark deed he will not name. From joyaulnce ne'er derived its birth. But never at our vesper prayer, But sadder still it were to trace Nor e'er before confession chair What once were feelings in that face Kneels he, nor reeks he when arise Time hath not yet the features fix'd, Incense or anthem to the skies, But brighter traits with evil mix'd; But broods within his cell alone, And there are hues not always faded, His faith and race alilke unknown. Which speak a mind not all degraded, The sea from Paynim land he crest, Even by the crimes through which it waded; And here ascended from the coast; The common crowd but see the gloom Yet seems he not of Othman race, Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom; But only Christian in his face: The close observer can espy I'd judge him some stray renegade, A noble soul, and lineage high: Repentant of the change he made, Alas! though both bestow'l in vain, Save that he shuns our holy shrine, Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. It was no vulgar tenement Great largess to these walls he brought, To which such lofty gifts were lent, And thus our abbot's favour bought; And still with little less than dread But were I prior, not a day On such the sight is riveted. Should brook such stranger's further stay, The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, Or pent within our penance cell Will scarce delay the passer by; Should doom him there for aye to dwell. The tower by war or tempest bent, Much in his visions mutters he While yet may frown one battlement, Of maiden'whelm'd beneath the sea; Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, Each ivied arch and pillar lone, Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. Pleads haughtily for glories gone! On cliff.he hath been known to stand, And rave as to some bloody hand, "h is floating robe around him folding, Fresh sever'd fiom its parent limb, Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle, Invisible to all but him, With dread beheld, with gloom beholding Which beckons onward to his grave, The rites that sanctify the pile. And lures to leap into the wave." But when the anthem shakes the choir, * * * * And kneel the monks, his steps retire; Dark and unearthly is the scowl By yonder lone and wavering torch That glares beneath his dusky cowl: His aspect glares within the porch; The flash of that dilating eye There will he pause till all is doneReveals too much of times gone by; And hear the prayer, but utter none. Though varying, indistinct its hue, See-by the half-illmnined wall Oft will his glance the gazer rue, His lood fly back, his dark hair fall, THE GIAOUIl. 63 That pale brow wildly wreathing round, Gives wealth to walls that never herard As if the Gorgon there had bound Of his one holy vow nor word. The sablest of the serpent-braid Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd: Peals louder praises to the sky, For he declines the convent oath, That livid cheek, that stony air And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, Of mix'd defiance and despair! But wears our garb in all beside; Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine And, not from piety but pride, Else may we dr ead the wrath divine Made manifest by awful sign. And sterner hearts alone may feel If ever evil angel bore The wound that time can never heal. The form of mortal, such he wore: The rugged metal of the mine, By all my hope of sins forgiven, Must burn before its surface shine, Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!" But plunged within the furnace-flamc, It bends and melts-though still the same; To love the softest hearts are prone, Then temper'd to thy want, or will, But such can ne'er be all his own;'T will serve thee to defend or kill; Too timid in his wones to share, A breast-plate for tline hour of need, Too meek to meet, or brave despair; Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; 64 THE GIAOUR. But if a dagger's form it bear, I've'scaped the weariness of lie: Let those who shape its edge, beware! Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, I loathed the langour of repose. Can turn and tame the sterner heart; Now nothing left to love or hate, From these its form and tone are ta'en, No more with hope or pride elate, And what they make it, must remain, I'd rather be the thing that crawls But break -before it bend again. Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, *, + * * * * I Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condenmn'd to meditate and gaze. If solitude succeed to grief Yet, lurks a wish within my breast Release from pain is slight relief; Yet, lurks a wish within my brest,~~3~ ~For rest-but not to feel't is rest. The vacant bosom's wilderlness The vacant bosom's wilderness Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil; Might thank the pang that made it less. And I shall seep withot the dream Ri}i~t ~hnnk the,L —-b ~ And I shall sleep without the dream iWe loathe what none are left to share: Of what I was, and Of what I was, and would be still, Even bliss-'t were woe alone to bear;.m The heart once lef thus desolate i Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: The heart once left thus desolate My memory now is but the tomb Must fly at last for ease-to hate. *M m n iust fy at i ast for ease-dto hate. Of joys long dead [ my hope, their doom: It is as if the dead could feel''Though better to have died with those The icy worm around them steal, Than bear a life of lingering Than bear a life of lingering woes.; And shudder, as the reptiles creep My spirit shrunk not to sustain M ly spirit shrunk not to sustain To revel o'er their rotting sleep, Without thepoet The searchlig throes of ceaseless pain;' Nor sought the self-accorded grave The cold consumers of their clay! cient fool and modern v Of ancient fool and modern knave: It is as if the desert-bird, 39 Is~ l L Il raYet death I have not fear'd to meet;'Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream And in the field it had been sweet, To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, Had danger woo'd me on to Had danger woo'd me on to moye Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, The slave of glory, not of love. Should r~end her rash devoted breast, Should rend her rash devoted breast, I've braved it-not for honour's boast; And find them flown her empty nest. I smile at laurels won or lost; The keenest pangs the'wretched find To such let others carve their way, Are rapture to the dreary void, For high renown, or hireling pay: The leafless desert of the mind, But place again before my eyes The waste of feelings unemploy'd. Aught that I deem a worthy prize; BW~r~ho would be Idoon'd to gaze upon The maid I love, the man I hate, ~A. sky ~without a cloud or s-un P And I will hunt the steps of fate, Less hideous far the tempest's roar slay, as these require, Than ne'er to brave the billows more — Through rending steel, and rolling fire: Thrown, when the war of winds is o'eor need'st thou doubt this speech from one A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, ->Who would but do-what he ath done.'Midcl sullen calm, and silent bay,''Midsullen calmr, andul slentay;, Death is but what the haughty brave, Unseen to drop by dull decay; ~The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; \X Better to sink beneath the shock Then let Life go to Him who gave: Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! I have not quail'd to danger's brow * * * * * * When high and happy-need I now? }"Father! thy days have pass'd in peace, * I * * * *'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; "I loved her, Friar! nay, adoredTo bid the sins of *others cease, But these are words that all can useThyself without a crime or care, I proved it more in deed than word; Save transient ills that all must bear, There's blood upon that dinted sword, Has been thy lot from youth to age; A stain its steel can never lose::And thou wilt bless thee from the rage'T was shed for her, who died for me, Of passions fierce, and uncontroll'c, It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd: Such as thy penitents unfold, Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest' Nor midst my sins such act record; -Within thy pure and pitying breast.' Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, My days, though few, have pass'd below For he was hostile to thy creed: In much of joy, but more of woe; The very name of Nazarene Yet still in hours of love or strife, Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. THE GIAOUR. 65 Ungrateful fool! since but for brands I loved her-love will find its way Well wielded in some hardy hands, Through paths where wolves would fear to prey; And wounds by Galileans given, And if it dares enough,'t were hard The surest pass to Turkish heaven, If passion met not some rewardFor him his Houris still might wait No matter how, or where, or why, Impatient at the Prophet's gate. I did not vainly seek, nor siglh: I wish she had not loved again. Faithless to 1dm, he gave the blow; She died-I dare not tell thee how; But true to me, I laid him low: In characters unworn by time: To me she gave her heart, that all Not mine the act, though I the cause. And I, alas! too late to save! Yet did he but what I had done Yet all I then could give, I gav 14., Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain Had she been false to more than one. I wish she had not loved again. Faithless to hit, he gave the blow; She died —I dare not tell thee how; But true to me, I laid him low: But look —'t is written on ny brow! Howe'er deserved her doom might be, There read of Cain the curse and crime, Her treachery was truth to me; In characters unworn by time: To me she gave her heart, that all Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; Which~tyranny can ne'er enthrall; Not mine the act, though I the cause. And I, alas! too late to save! Yet did he but what I had done Yet all I then could give, I gavo. — 14 66 THE GIA OUTR.'T was some relief —our foe a grave. That, seen, became a part of sight; His death sits lightly; but her fate And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, Has made me-what thou well may'st hate. The Morning-star of Memory! His doom was seal'd-he knew it well, Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, " Ys, lv7e indeed is light from heaven; Deep in whose darkly boding ear 40 A spark of that immortal fire Tihe deathshot peal'd of murder near, With angels shared, by Alla given, As filed the troop to where they fell! To lift from earth our low desire. He died too in the battle broil, Devotion wafts the mind above, A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; But Heaven itself descends in love; One cry to Mahomet for aid, A feeling from the Godhead caught, One prayer to Alla all he made: To wean from self each sordid thought; He knew and cross'd me in the fray- A Ray of Him who form'd the whole; I gazed upon him where he lay, A Glory circling round the soul! And watch'd his spirit ebb away: I grant my love imperfect, all Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, That mortals by the name miscall; He felt not half that now I feel. Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! The workings of a wounded mind; Sh.e was my life's unerring light: Each feature of that sullen corse That quench'd, what beam shall break my Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. night Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Despair upon his dying face! Although to death or deadliest ill! The late repentance of that hour, Why marvel ye, if they who lose When Penitence hath lost her power This present joy, this future hope, To tear one terror from the grave, No more with sorrow meekly cope; And will not soothe, and cannot save. In phrensy then their fate accuse: In madness do those fearful deeds * *I * * * ce That seem to add but guilt to woe? "The cold in clime are cold in blood, Alas! the breast that inly bleeds Their love can scarce deserve the name; Hath nought to dread fiom outward blow: But mine was like the lava flood Who falls from all he knows of bliss, That boils in AEtna's breast of flamne. Cares little into what abyss. I cannot prate in puling strain Fierce as the gloomy vulture s now Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain: To thee, old man, my deeds appear: If changing cheek, and scorching vein, I read abhorrence on thy brow, Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, And this too was I born to bear! If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain,'T is true, that like that bird of prey, And daring deed, and vengeful steel, With havock have I mark'd my way: And all that I have felt, and feel, But this was taught me by the dove, Betoken love-that love was mine, To die-and know no second love. And shown by many a bitter sign. This lesson yet hath man to learn,'T is true, I could not whine nor sigh, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn: I knew but to obtain or die. The bird that sings within the brake, I die-but first, I have possess'd, The swan that swims upon the lake, And come what may, I have been bless'd. One mate, and one alone, will take. Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? And let the fool still prone to range, No-reft of all, yet undismay'd - And sneer on all who cannot change, But for the thought of Leila slain, Partake his jest with boasting boys; Give me the pleasure with the pain, I envy not his varied joys, So would I live and love again. But deem such feeble, heartless man, I grieve, but not, my holy guide! Less than yon solitary swan; For him who dies, but her who died: Far, far beneath the shallow maid She sleeps beneath the wandering wave- He left believing and betray'd. Ah! had she but an earthly grave, Such shame at least was never mineThis breaking heart and throbbing head Leila! each thought was only thine! Should seek and share her narrow bed. My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, She was a form of life and light, My hope on high-my all below. THE GIAOURI. 67 Earth holds no other like to thee, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried Or, if it doth, in vain for me: To bless his memory ere I died; For worlds I dare not view the dame But Heaven in wrath would turn away, Resembling thee, yet not the same. If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. The very crimes that mar my youth, I do not ask him not to blame, This bed of death-attest my truth! Too gentle he to wound my name;'T is all too late-thou wert, thou art And what have I to do with fame? The eherish'd maduness of my heart! I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn; And she was lost —and yet I breathed, l - And what than friendship's manly tear But not the breath of human life; May better grace a brother's bier 31i A serpent round my heart was wreathed, But bear this ring, his own of old, And stung my every thought to strife. And tell him-what thou dost behold! Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face, The wrack by passion left behind, Where every hue that charm'd before A shriveled scroll, a scatter'd leaf, The blackness of my bosom wore. Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! The rest thou dost already know, * * * * * * And all my sins, and half my woe. "Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, But talk no more of penitence; No, father, no,'t was not a dream; Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence: Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, And if thy holy tale were true, I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep; The deed that's done, canst thou undo? But could not, for my burning brow Think me not thankless-but this grief Throbb'd to the very brain as now: Looks not to priesthood for relief.41 I wish'd but for a single tear, My soul's estate in secret guess: As something welcome, new, and dear; But would'st thou pity more, say less. I wish'd it then, I wish it still; When thou canst bid my Leila live, Despair is stronger than my will. Then will I sue thee to forgive; Waste not thine orison, despair Then plead my cause in that high place Is mightier than thy pious prayer: Where purchased masses proffer grace. I would not, if I might, be blest; Go, when the hunter's hand hath wtrung I want no paradise, but rest. From forest-cave her shrieking young,'T was then, I tell thee, father! then And calm the lonely lioness: I saw her; yes, she lived again; But soothe not —mock not,1?y distress! And shining in her white symar, 42 As through yon pale gray cloud the star "In earlier days; and calmer hours, Which now I gaze on, as on her, When heart with heart delights to blend, Who look'd and looks far lovelier; SWhere bloom my native valley's bowers, Dimly I view its trembling spark; I had-Ah! have I now P-a friend! To-morrow's night shall be more dark; To him this pledge I charge thee send, And I, before its rays appear, Memorial of a youthful vow; That lifeless thing the living fear. I would remind him of my end: I wander, father! for my soul Though souls absorb'd like mine allow Is fleeting towards the final goal. Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, I saw her, friar! and I rose Yet dear to him my blighted name. Forgetful of our former woes;'T is stran.ge-he prophesied my doom, And rushing from my couch, I dart, And I have smiled-I then could smile —. And clasp her to my desperate heart; When Prudence would his voice assume, I clasp —what is it that I clasp? And warn-I reck'd not what-the while: No breathing form within my grasp, But now remembrance whispers o'er No heart that beats reply to mine, Those accents scarcely mark'd before. Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine! Say-that his bodings came to pass, And art thou, dearest, changed so much And le will start to hear their truth, As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? And wish his words had not been sooth: Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, Tell him, unheeding as I was, I care not; so my arms enfold Through many a busy bitter scene The all they ever wish'd to hold. Of all our golden y-oath had bean, Alas! around a shadow prest, 69 THE GIAOUR. They shrink upon my lonely breast; Or farther with thee bear my soul Yet still'tis there! In silence stands, Than winds can waft or waters roll! And beckons with beseeching hands! * * * * With braided hair, and bright-black eye- "Such is my name, and such my tale. I knew't was false-she could not die! Confessor! to thy secret ear But he is dead! within the dell I breathe the sorrows I bewail, I saw him buried where he fell; And thank thee for the generous tear He comes not, for he cannot break This glazing eye could never shed. From earth; why then art thou awake? Then lay me with the humblest dead, They told me wild waves roll'd above And, save the cross above my head, The face I view, the form I love: Be neither name nor emblem spread, They told me —'t was a hideous tale! By prying stranger to be read, I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." If true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave; He pass'd —nor of his name and race Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er Hath left a token or a trace, This brow that then will burn no more; Save what the father must not say Or place them on my hopeless heart: Who shrived him on his dying day: But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art, This broken tale was all he knew In mercy ne'er again depart I Of her he loved, or him he slew. 43 NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. Ff NlOTE 1, page 62. Waywode. A pander and eunuch-these are not polite That tomb, which, gleaming o'er the cliff. yet true appellations-now governs the governor of Athens A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some NTOTE 7, page 54. supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles.'Tis calher thlan thy heart, young Giaour! NOTE 2, page 53. Infidel. Sultana of the Nightingale. NOTE 8, page 54. The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well- in echoes of the far tophaike. known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the " Bulbul of a "Tophaike," musket. —The Bairam is annonnced by the thousand tales" is one of his appellations. cannon at sunset; the illumination of the Mosques, and the NoTE 3, page 53. firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaims NTE 3. page53. ~ it during the night. Till the gay mariner's guitar. The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor NOTE 9, page 55. by night: with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is Swift as the htrl' on highljerreed. accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is NOTE 4, page 53. darted from horseback with great force and precision. It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans; but I know not if it can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the "Ay, but to die and go we know not where, art are the black eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next To lye in cold obstruction."- to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that easure for ieasure, Act iii. So: 2. came within my observation. NOTE 5, page 53. NoTE 10, page 55. DTle first, last look by death reveal'd! He came, he went, like the Simoocm. 1 trust that few of my readers have ever had an oppor- The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and tunity of witnessing what is here attempted in description; often alluded to in eastern poetry. but those who have will probably retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few N 11, page 6. exceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but To bless the sacred " bread and salt." for a few hours, after " the spirit is not there." It is to be To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the host, ensures the safety of the guest: even though an enemy, expression is always that of langour, whatever the natural his person from that moment is sacred. energy of the sufferer's character: but in death from a stab, NOTE 12, page 56. the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, Sice his tuecrasz eas cleft by the Idl's sabre and the mind its bias, to the last. andtheminditsiasOTE 6to page 54lt I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are NOTE 6, page 54. the first duties enjoined by Mahomet; and to say truth, very Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave. generally practised by his disciples. The first praise that Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the slave of can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegyric on his bounty; the seraglio and guardian of the women), who appoints the the next, on his valour. NOTES TO THE GIAOUTR. G NOTE 13, page 56. and exclude their moities from heaven. Being enemies to And silver-sheathed ataghan. Platonics, they cannot discern " any fitness of things " in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to be superseded The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the by the IHouris. belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among NOTE 23, page 57. the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. NOTE 23, page 57. thewealtiergilNOTE 14,rof pageo56.The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly An Esnsir by his garb of green. stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arabie." Green is the privileged colour of the Prophet's numer-NOTE 24 page 57 ous pretended descendants; with them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity Her hair in hyacinthine low. of good works: they are the worst of a very indifferent HIyacinthine, in Arabic " Sunbul;" as common a thought brood. in the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. N1)TE 15, page 56. NOTE 25, page 57. " ]o! who art thou? "-"' This low salamn." T7e loveliest bird of irangquestan. " Salam aleikoum! aleikoum salam! "-" Peace be with; Franguestan," Circassia. you; be with you peace "-the salutation reserved for the Faithful:-to a Christian, "Urlarula!"-"- A good jour- NOTE 2G, page 59. ney;" or, "Saban hiresem, saban serula "-" Good morn' Bismsillah! now the peril's past." good even; " and sometimes, "' Man your end be happy," I3ismillah —" in the name of God;" the commencement are the usual salutes. of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of prayer and N OTE 16, pnae 56. thanksgiving. ipOTE 27, page 59. The insect-queen of eastern spring. Then curl'd his very beard with ire. The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the speciesd A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whispers at a diploNOTE 17, page 57. matic audience were no less lively with indignation than a Or live like Seospion girt by fire. tiger cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans; the porAlluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed tentous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their own for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some maintain that accord, and were expected every moment to change their the position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is colour, but at last condescended to subside, which, probably, merely a convulsive movement; but others have actually saved more heads than they contained hairs. brought in the verdict, "Felo de se." The scorpions are NOTE 28, page 59. surely interested in a speedy decision of the question; as, if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will probably Nor raised the craven cry,.Ao an.! be allowed to live as long as they think proper, without Amann," quarter, pardon. being martyred for the sake of an hypothesis. NOTE 29, page 59. NOTE 18, page 57. I i.know him by the evil eye. Whess hssamazan's last suns was set. The " evil eye," a common superstition in the Levant, The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See ste, and of which the imaginary effects are yet very singular on note 8. those who conceive themselves affected. NOTE 19, page 57. NOTE 30, page 60. By pale Phingari's trembling liglt. A fragszeszt of his palanpore. Phingari, the moon. The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. NOTE 20, page 57. N. OTE 31, page 61. Bright as the jewel of Giasscehid. H~is ca7pae rent-his caftan red. The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the The calpac is the solid cap or centre part of the head. embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendour, named Scheb- dress; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. gerag, "The Torch of Night;" also, the "Cup of the Sun," NOTE 32, page 61. &c. In the first edition, " Giamschid" was written as a word of three syllables; so D'Herbelot has it; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes The tlr'ban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the "Jamshid." I have left in the text the orthography of the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the one with the pronunciation of the other. wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass similar NOTE 21, page 57. - mementos; and on inquiry you are informed that they reTh Osgh on, Al-irat's arch. Itodcord some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. Thoughz on Al1-Sz'at's arch I stood. Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth, less than the thread of a NOTE 33, page 61. famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must skate At solemn sound of "1 Alla lu!" into Paradise, to which it is the only entrance; but this is " Alla lIu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's call not the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the which, as may be expected, the inskilful and tender of foot Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine contrive to tumble with a "facilis descensus Averni," not voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. shorter cut downwards to the Jews and Christians. NOTE 34, page 61. NOTE 22, page 57. They come-their kerchiefs green they wave. A sonulles toy for tyrant's lust. The following is part of a battle song of the Turks -- A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third of "I see-I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a Paradise to well-behaved women; but by far the greater handklerchief, a kerchief of green; and cries aloud,' Come, number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, kiss me, for I love thee,'" &c. NOTES TO THE GIAOIIR. NOTE 35, page 61. belief in his troublesome faculty of fore-ihecaring. On our Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. return to Athens we heard from Leone (a prisoner set Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and pcepara- Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its i-ot taking tory training for damnation. If the answers are none of place, in the notes to "Childe Hartld," Canto II. I was the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped at some pains to question the man, and he described the down with a red hot mace till properly seasoned, with a dresses, arms, and marls of the horses of our party so accuvariety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels rately, that, with other circumstances, we could not doubt is no sinecure; there are but two, and the number of ortho- of hiS being in " villanous company,' and ourselves in a dox deceased being in a small proportion to the remaindel, bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, their hands are always full. and I daresay he is now hearing more musquetry than ever will be fired, to the great refreshment of the Arnauts of NOTE 36, page 61. Berat, and his native mountains.-I shall mention one trait To wander round lost Eblis' throne. more of this singular race. In March, 1811, a remarkably Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. stout and active Arnaut came (I believe the fiftieth on NOTE 37, page 61. the same'errand) to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined. "Well, Affendi," quoth he, "may you Bst first, on earths as Vampirpe sent. live -you would have found me useful. I shall leave the The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. town for the hills to-morrow; in the winter I return, perHonest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in haps you will then receive me."-Dervish, who was prehis notes on " Thalaba," quotes, about these " Vroncolo- sent, remarked as a thing of course, and of no consequence, chas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is " Vardoula- "in the mean time, he.will join the Klephtes" (robbers), cha." I recollect a whole family being terrified by the which was true to the letter. If not cut off, they come scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some town, such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word where they are often as well known as their exploits. without horror. I find that "Broucolokas" is an old NOTE 41, page 67. legitimate Hellenic appellation-at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death Looes not to priesthood for relief. animated by the Devil.-The moderns, however, use the The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had word I mention. so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes NOTE 38, page 61. from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of Wtet with thine own best blood sshall drip. a customary length (as may be perceived from the interThe freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip ruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), and was delivered with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are NOTE 42, page 67. singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. And shining in her white synar. NOTE 39, page 64.' Symar,"-Shroud. It is as if the desert bird. NOTE 43, page 68. The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled by the Of er e loved o e slew. imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood., he sew. The circumstance to which the above story relates, was NOTE 40, page 66. not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago, the wife Deep in whose darkely bodlng ear. of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's supThis superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met posed infidelity; he asked with whom, and she had the barwith downright second-sight in the East) fell once under my barity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in own observation. On my third journey to Cape Colonna, Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and early in 1811, as we passed through the defile that leads drowned in the lake the same night! One of the guards from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, I observed who was present informed me, that not one of the victims Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror, at so sudden his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up and in- a " wrench from all we know, from all we love." The quired. " We are in peril," he answered. I' What peril? fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject we are not now in Albania, nor in the passes to Ephesus, of many a liomain and Arnaut ditty. The story in the Messalunghi, or Lepanto; there are plenty of us, well text is ono told of a young Venetian many years ago, and armed, and the Choriates have not courage to be thieves." now nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by -" True, Affendi, but nevertheless the shot is ringing in one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the my ears."-" The shot! not a tophaike has been fired this Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The additions morning." -" I hear it, notwithstanding-Bom-Bom- and interpolations by the translator will be easily distinas plainly as I hear your voice."-" Psha! "-"As you guished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery; please, Affendi; if it is written, so will it be." - I left and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments this quick-ceared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, his of the original. For the contents of some of the notes, I Christian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all pro- am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most phetic, by no means relished the intelligence. We all Eastern, and, as Mir. Webber justly entitles it, " sublime arrived at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned tale," the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what leisurely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more lan- source the author of that singular volume may have drawn gu8ages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mis- his materials; some of his incidents are to be found in the taken seer. Romaic, Arnaut, Turkish, Italian, and English "Bibliotlhque Orientale; " but for correctness of costume, were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the unfortunate beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surMussulman. While we were contemplating the beautiful passes all European imitations; and bears such marks of prospect, Dervish was occupied about the columns. I originality, that those who have visited the East will find thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. him if he had become a " Palac-castro " man? "N o," said As an Eastern tale, even 1Rasselas must bow before it; his he, "but these piliars will be useful in making a stand;" I" Happy Valley" will not bear a comparison witn the and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own " IIall of Eblis." A TURKISH TALE. H' Iad we never loved so kindly, HIad we neverloved so blindly, o oi~~ ISD Et ~~~~~~~Never met or never parted, We lad ne'er been broken-bearted.'" DoURes. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY IS GRATEFULLY OBLIGEID TBND SINCELE FRIEID, BYRON. bier CANTO THE FIRST. 0 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; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gil in her bloom;' Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And tlhe purple of Ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? THIIE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 73'T is the clime of the East;'t is the land of the Sun — Awaiting each his lord's behest Can he smile on such deeds as his children have i To guide his steps, or guard his rest, done? 2 Old Giaffir sate in his Divan: Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Deep thought was in his aged eye; Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which And though the face of Mussulman they tell. I Not oft betrays to standers by The mind within, well skill'd to hide All but unconquerable pride, Begirt with many a gallant slave, His pensive cheek and pondering brow Apparell'd as becomes the brave, Did more than he was wont avow. ~,:/~"} III. "/I',? when all:'h crow tht And the Nubian awaiting the si iie's award. He fate is fix'd this ery ho I 15, i l aroun-when all the crowd that'Wait 74 TIHE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Yet not to her repeat my thought; Nor strike one stroke for life and death By me alone be duty taught! " Against the curs of Nazareth! "Pacha! to hear is to obey." Go-let thy less than woman's hand No more must slave to despot say — Assume the distaff-not the brand. Then to the tower had ta'en his way, But, Haroen!-to my daughter speed: But here young Selim silence brake, And hark-of thine own head take heedFirst lowly rendering reverence meet; If thus Zuleika oft takes wingAnd downcast look'd, and gently spake, Thou see'st yon bow-it hath a string!" Still standing at the Pacha's feet: For son of {Moslem must expire, V. Ere dare to sit before his sire! No sound from Selim's lip was heard, At least that met old Giaffir's ear, "Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide But every frown and every word My sister, or her sable guide, Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. Know —for the fault, if fault there be, "Son of a slave!-reproach'd. with fear! Was mine-then fall thy frowns on me- Those gibes had cost another dear. So lovelily the morning shone, Son of a slave!-and who my sire? " That-let the old and weary sleep- Thus held his thoughts their dark career; I could not; and to view alone And glances ev'n of more than ire The fairest scenes of land and deep, Flash forth, then faintly disappear. With none to listen and reply Old Giaffir gazed upon his son To thoughts with which my heart beat high, And started; for within his eye Were irksome-for whate'er my mood, He read how much his wrath had done; In sooth I love not solitude; He saw rebellion there begun: I on Zuleika's slumber broke, "Come hither, boy-what, no reply? And, as thou knowest that for me I marl thee-and I know thee too; ~Soon turns the Hram's grating key, But there be deeds thou dar'st not do: SBefore te guardian sltaves awoke But if thy beard had manlier length, Before the guardian slaves awoke We to the cypress groves had flown, And if thy hand had skill and strength, And made earth, main, and heaven our own! I'd joy to see thee break a lance, There linger'd we, beguiled too long Albeit against my own perchance." With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song,3 Till I, who heard the deep tambour4 As sneeringly these accents fell, Beat thy D)ivan's approaching hour, On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed: To thee, and to my duty true, That eye return'd him glance for glance, Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew: And proudly to his sire's was raised, But there Zuleika wanders yet — Till Viaffir's quail'd and shrunk askanceNay, father, rage not-nor forget And why-he felt, but durst not tell. That none can pierce that secret bower " Much I misdoubt'this wayward boy But those who watch the women's tower." Will one day work me more annoy: I never loved him from his birth, Iv. And-but his arm is little worth, "Son of a slave "-the Pacha said- And scarcely in the chase could cope "From unbelieving mother bred, With timid fawn or antelope, Vain were a father's hope to see Far less would venture into strife Aught that beseems a man in thee. Where man contends for fame and lifeThou, when thine arm should bend the bow, I would not trust that look or tone: And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, No-nor the blood so near my own. Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, That blood-he hath not heard-no moreMust pore where babbling waters flow, I'll watch him closer than before. And watch unfolding roses blow. He is an Arab to my sight,5 Would that yon orb, whose matin glow Or Christian crouching in the fightThy listless eyes so much admire, But hark!-I hear Zuleika's voice; Would lend thee something of his fire! Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: Thou, who would'st see this battlement She is the offspring of my choice; By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; Oh! more than ev'n her mother dear, Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall With all to hope, and nought to fearBefore the dogs of Moscow fall, My Peri!-ever welcome here! K m =;...................... THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 75 Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave, That won and well can keep their lands. To lips iust cool'd in time to save- Enough that.he who comes to woo Suce to my longing sight art thou; Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou: Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine His years need scarce a thought employ: More thanks for life, than I for thine, I would not have thee wed a boy. Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now." And thou shalt have a noble dower: And his and my united power vI. Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, Which others tremble but to scan, When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, And teach the messenger what fate Whose image then was stamped upon her mind — The bearer of such boon may wait.8 But once beguiled-and ever more beguiling; And now thou knowest thy father's will: Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision All that thy sex hath need to know: To Sorrow's phantomspeopled slumber given,'T was mine to teach obedience stillWhen heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, The way to love, thy lord may show." And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven; Soft, as the memory of buried love; VIII. Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above; In silence bow'd the virgin's head; Was she-the daughter of that rude old Chief, And if her eye was fill'd with tears Who met the maid with tears —but not of grief. That stifled feeling dare not shed, And changed her cheek from pale to red, Who hath not proved how feebly words essay And red to pale, as through her ears To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray? Those winged words like arrows sped, Who doth not feel, until his failing. sight What could such be but maiden fears? Faints into dimness with its own delight, So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess Love half regrets to kiss it dry; The might-the majesty of Loveliness P So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, Such was Zuleika-such around her shone Even Pity scarce can wish it less The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone; The light of love, the purity of grace, Whate'er it was the sire forgot; The mind, the Music breathing from her face,6 Or if remember'd, mark'd it not; The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed, 9 And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul! Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque,'~ And mounting featly for the mead, Her graceful arms in meekness bending With Maugrabee and Mamaluke,' Across her gently-budding breast; His way amid his Delis took, 2 At one kind word those arms extending To witness many an active deed To clasp the neck of him who blest With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. His child caressing and carest, The Kislar only and his Moors Zuleika came- and Giaffir felt Watch well the Haram's massy doors. His purpose half within him melt: Not that against her fancied weal In. His heart though stern could ever feel; His head was leant upon his hand, Affection chain'd her to that heart; His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water Ambition tore the links apart. That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the windbing Dardanelles; VII. But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, "Zuleika! child of gentleness! Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band How dear this very day must tell, Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, When I forget my own distress, Careering cleave the folded felt'3 In losing what I love so well, With sabre stroke right sharply dealt; To bid thee with another dwell: Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, Another! and a braver man Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud-14 Was never seen in battle's van. He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter! We Moslem reck not much of blood; But yet the line of Carasman X. Unchanged, unchangeable, hath stood No word from Selim's bosom broke: First of the bold Timariot bands One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke: h1 6 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Still gazed he through the lattice grate, But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. She knew not why, forbade to speak. To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd. Yet speak she must —but when essay? but little from his aspect learn'd: " How strange he thus should turn away! Equal her grief, yet not the same; Not thus we e'er before have met; Her heart confess'd a gentler flame: Not thus shall be our parting yet." III i I I' J,. ili'I i,I, t'~ll~l i;Il I' i I i i i r i! il'i' /' j' rrhrice paced she slowly through the room, Th1e drops, that thiough his glittering vet And watch'd his eye-it still was fixed: The playful girl's appeal address'd, Sue snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, The Persian Atar-gul's perfume,'5 As if that breast were marble too. And sprinkled all its odours o'er "What, sullen yet? it must not beThe pictured roof and marble floor:'- Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee!" I~~iiillitrrj -r~~~~~~illM Thiepcd h lwythog h om h ros htfiruh sgiteigvs An ac'dhsee-tsil a ie: h lyflgr'sapa adesd S-ae snateliM the urn wherein was mixed Unheeded o'er his bosom fiew,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~i Th esa Aa-u'pefm,- A fta bes ee abeto Lnd sprinkled all its odours o'er What, sullen yet P it must not beTh pctre rofan arleflorOh gnteSeim tisfrm he! THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.'i She saw in curious order set If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." The fairest flowers of eastern land — The childish thought was hardly breathed "He lov'd them once; may touch them yet Before the Rose was pluck'd and wreathed; 1P 14 6> X 1 _ 1i' I t!'ii j' i i/ -.,,,, X,, The o t se Io I N'.This rose to calm my brothers cares A message from the Bulbul bears;'! XI.''i'! iili 1 i I TheAnd next fond mo ment saw hera seat On me can thus thy forehead lower'd lay Her fairy for once at Selim's feet glay sin g these glo omyw'st thou not gho s thee best Paway. A message from the Bulbul bears;;' For Selia's ear hi s sweetest song; Nay then Iamn indeed unblest: 78 THE, BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest! But blench not thou-thy simplest tress Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest P Claims more from me than tenderness; Come, lay thy head upon my breast, (I would not wrong the slenderest hair And I wfill kiss thee into rest, -That clusters round thy forehead fair, Since words of mine, and songs must fail, For all the treasures buried far Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. Within the caves of Istakar.'9 I knew our sire at times was stern, This morning clouds upon me lower'd, But this from thee had yet to learn: Reproaches on my head were shower'd, Too well I know he loves thee not; And Giaffir almost call'd me coward! But is Zuleika's love forgot? Now I have motive to be brave; Ah! deem I right? the Pacha's plan- The son of his neglected slave, This kinsman Bey of Carasman Nay, start not,'t was the term he gave, Perhaps may prove some foe of thine: May show, though little apt to vaunt, If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. If shrines that ne'er approach allow His son, indeed!-yet, thanks to thee, To woman's step, admit her vow, Perchance I am, at least shall be; Without thy free consent, command, But let our plighted secret vow The Sultan should not have my hand! Be only known to us as now. Think'st thou that I could bear to part I know the wretch who dares demand With thee, and learn to halve my heart? From Giaffir thy reluctant hand; Ah! were I sever'd from thy side,. More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul Where were thy friend-and who my guide? Holds not a Musselim's control:` Years have not seen, Time shall not see Was he not bred in Egripo P 2L The hour that tears my soul from thee: A viler race let Israel show! Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver 18 But let that pass-to none be told When flies that shaft, and fly it must, Our oath; the rest let time unfold. That parts all else, shall doom for ever To me and mine leave Osman Bey; Our hearts to undivided dust!" I've partisans for peril's day: Think not I am what I appear; XIi. I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." He lived-he breathed-he moved-he felt; He raised the maid from where she knelt; XIII. His trance was gone-his keen eye shone- " Think not thou art what thou appearest! WVith thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; My Selim, thou art sadly changed: With thoughts that burn-in rays that melt. This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest; But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. As the stream late conceal'd My love thou surely knew'st before, By the fringe of its willows, It ne'er was less, nor can be more. When it rushes reveal'd To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, In the light of its billows; And hate the night, I know not why, As the bolt bursts on high Save that we meet not but by day; From the black cloud that bound it, With thee to live, with thee to die, Flash'd the soul of that eye I dare not to my hope deny: Through the long lashes round it. Thy cheekl, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, Like this —and this-no more than this; A lion rous'd by heedless hound, For, Alla! sure thy lips are flame: A tyrant waked to sudden strife What fever in thy veins is flushing? By graze of ill-directed knife, My own have nearly caught the same, Starts not to more convulsive life At least I feel my cheek too blushing. Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, And all, before repress'd, betray'd: Partake, but never waste thy wealth, Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, "Now thou art mine, for ever mine, And lighten half thy poverty; With life to keep, and scarce with life resign; Do all but close thy dying eye, Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, For that I could not live to try; Though sworn by one, hath bound us both., To these alone my thoughts aspire: Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done; More can I do P? or thou require? That vow hath saved more heads than one: But, Selim., thou must answer why I~~ ~ ~~~~~_ _ _ _ TITE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 79 We need so much of mystery? Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. The cause I cannot dream nor tell, Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar,22 But be it, since thou say'st'tis well; My father leaves the mimic war: Yet what thou mean'st by' arms' and' friends,' I tremble now to meet his eyeBeyond my weaker sense extends. Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?" I meant that Giaffir should have heard The very vow I plighted thee; - XIV. His wrath would not revoke my word: "Zuleika-to thy tower's retreat Bat surely he would leave me free. Betake thee-Giaffir I can greet: Can this fond wish seem strange in me, And now with him I fain must prate To be what I have ever been? Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. What other hath Zuleika seen There's fearful news from Danube's banks, From simple childhood's earl'est hour P Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, What other can she seek to see For which the Giaour may give him thaiks! Than thee, companion of her bower, Our Sultan hath a shorter way The partner of her infancy? Such costly triumph to repay. These cherished thoughts with life begun, But, mark me, when the twilight drum Say, why must I no more avow? P ath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, What change is wrought to make me shun Unto thy cell will Selim come: The truth; my pride, and thine till now? Then softly from the Haram creep To meet the gaze of strangers' eyes Where we may wander by the deep: Our law, our creed, our God denies; Our garden-battlements are steep; Nor shall one wandering thought of mine Nor these will rash intruder climb At such, our Prophet's will, repine: To list our words, or stint our time; No! happier made by that decree! And if he doth, I want not steel He left me all in leaving thee. Which some have felt, and more may feel. Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd Then shalt thou learn of Selim more To wed with one I ne'er beheld: Than thou hast heard or thought before: This wherefore should I not reveal? Trust me, Zuleika-fear not me! Why wilt thou urge me to conceal? Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." I know the Pacha's haughty mood To thee hath never boded good; "Fear thee, my Selim! ne'er till now And he so often storms at nought, Did word like this-" Alla! forbid that e'er he ought "Delay not thou; And why I know not, but within I keep the key —and Haroun's guard My heart concealment weighs like sin. Have some, and hope of more reward. If then such secrecy be crime, To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear And such it feels while lurking here; My tale, my purpose, and my fear: Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time, I am not, love! what I appear." C (ANTO I. And'clouds aloft and tides below, TiE winds are high on Helle's wave, With signs and sounds, forbade to go, As on that night of stormy water, Hle could not see, he would not.hear, When Love, who sent, forgot to save Or sound or sign foreboding fear; The young, the beautiful, the brave, His eye but saw the light of love, The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. The onlyr star it hail'd above; Oh! when alone along the sky His ear but rang with Hero's song, Her tuirret-torch was blazing high, "Ye waves, divide not lovers long!"Thought{lSr —ig-gkle, and breaking foam, That tale is old, but love anew And shriekinii-sea-birds warn'd him home; May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 80 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOST. II. Could smooth this life, and win the next; The winds are high, and Helle's tide And by her Collmboloio liesU7 Rolls darkly heaving to the main; A Koi'an of illumined dyes; And Night's descending shadows hide And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme That field with blood bedew'd in vain, By Persian scribes redeem'd from time; The desert of old Priam's pride; And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, The tombs, sole relics of his reign, Reciines her now neglected lute; All-save.immortal dreams that could beguile round her lamp of fretted gold The blind old llmanl of Scio'.s rocky isle! Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; The richest work of Iran's loom, And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume; Oh! yet-for there my steps have been; All that can eye or sense delight These feet have press'dl the sacred shore, These limbs that buoyant thave hath borne- Are gather'd n that gorgeous room: buoyant wave hath borne- But yet it hath an air of gloom. Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn, To trace again those fields of yore, Totae again thilo fieloyr What doth she hence, and on so rude a night P Believing every hillock green_ Contains no fabled hero's aches, vI. And that around the undoubted scene Thine own "broad Hellespont" still dashes,`3 Wrhapt in the darkest sable vest, Be long my lot! alnd cold were he NWhich none save noblest Moslem wear, W7ho there could gaze denyling thee! To guard from winds of heaven the breast As heaven itself to Selim dear, IV. W~ith cauti;ous steps the thicket threading, The night hath closed on Helle's stream, Alnd starting oft, as through the glade Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill The gust its hollow moanings made; That moon, which shone on his high theme: Till on the smoother pathway treading, No warrior chides her peaceful beam, More free her timid bosom beat, But conscious shepherds bless it still. The maid pursued her silent guide; Their flocks are grazing on the mound And though her terror urged retreat, Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow: HIow could she quit her Selim's side P That mighty heap of gather'd ground How teach her tender lips to chide P? Which Ammon's son ran proudly round, 2 By nations rais'd, by monarchs crown'd, Vi. Is now a lone and nameless barrow! They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn Within-thy dwelling-place how narrow!v By nature, but enlarged by art, Without-can only strangers breathe Where oft her lute she wont to tune, The name of him that tvas beneath: And oft her Koran conn'd apart: Dust long outlasts the storied stone; And oft in youthful reverie But Thou-thy very dust is gone! She dream'd what Paradise might be; V. W7~here woman's parted soul shall go Her Prophet had disdain'd to show; Late, late to-night will Dian cheer But Sm's mansion was secure, The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; or deem'd she, could he long endure Nor deem'd she, could he long endure Till then -no beacon on the cliff His bower in other worlds of bliss, May shape the course of struggling skiff; Without h, most beloved in this The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, who so dea with him could dwll All, one by one, have died away; What hou soothe him half so dwell? The only lamp of this lone hour Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. VIII. Yes! there is light in that lone chamber, Since last she visited the spot And o'er her silken Ottoman Some change seem'd wrought within the grot: Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, It might be only that the night O'er which her fairy fingers ran;2 Disguised things seen by better light: Near these, with emerald rays beset, That brazen lamp but dimly threw (How could she thus that gem forget P?) A ray of no celestial hue; Her mother's sainted amulet,26 But in a nook within the cell Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, Her eye on stranger objects fell. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 81 There arms were piled, not such as wield My breast is offer'd-take thy fill! The turban'd Delis in the field; Far better with the dead to be But brands of foreign blade and hilt, Than live thus nothing now to thee; And one was red-perchance with guilt! Perhaps far worse, for now I know Ah! how without can blood be spilt? Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe; A cup too on the board was set. And I, alas! am Giaffir's child, That did not seem to hold sherbet. For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. What may this mean P? she turn'd to see If not thy sister-would'st thou save Her Selim —" Oh! can this be he?" My life, oh! bid me be thy slave!" IX. XII. His robe of pride was thrown aside, " My slave, Zuleika!-nay, I'm thine: His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, But, gentle love, this transport calm, But in its stead a shawl of red, Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine; Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore: I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, That dagger, on whose hilt the gem And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. Were worthy of a diadem, So may the Koran verse display'd29 No longer glitter'd at his waist, Upon its steel direct my blade, Where pistols unadorn'd were braced; In danger's hour to guard us both, And from his belt a sabre swung, As I preserve that awful oath! And from his shoulder loosely hung The name in which thy heart hath prided The cloak of white, the thin capote Must change; but, my Zuleika, know, That decks the wandering Candiote; That tie is widen'd, not divided, Beneath-his golden plated vest Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. Clung like a cuirass to his breast; My father was to Giaffir all The greaves below his knee that wound That Selim late was deem'd to thee; With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. That brother wrought a brother's fall, But were it not that high command But spared, at least, my infancy;: Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, A-nd lull'd me with a vain deceit All that a careless eye could see That yet a like return may meet. In him was some young Galiong6e.8 lie rear'd me, not with tender help, But like the nephew of a Cain;30 X. He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, "I said I was not what I seem'd; That gnaws and yet may break his chain. And now thou seest my words were true: My father's blood in every vein I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, Is boiling; but for thy dear sake If sooth-its truth must others rue. No present vengeance will I take; My story now'twere vain to hide, Thoughi here I must no more remain. I must not see thee Osman's bride: But first, beloved Zuleika! hear But had not thine own lips declared How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. How much of that young heart I shared, I could not, must not, yet have shown XIII. The darker secret of my own. "How first their strife to rancour grew, In this I speak not now of love; If love or envy made them foes, That, let time, truth, and peril prove: It matters little if I knew; But first-Oh! never wed another- In fiery spirits, slights, though few Zuleika! I am. not thy brother! " And thoughtless, will disturb repose. In war Abdallah's arm was strong, XI. inRemember'd yet in Bosniac song, "Oh! not my brother!-yet unsay- And Paswan's rebel hordes attest3' God! am I left alone on earth How little love they bore such guest: To mourn —I dare not curse-the day his death is all I need relate, That saw my solitary birth? The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; Oh! thou wilt love me now no more! And how my birth disclosed to me. My sinking heart foreboded ill; Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. But know bme all I was before, Thy sister-friend-Zleika still. XIV. Thou ledd'st me here perchance to kill; "When Paswan, after years of strife, If thou hast cause for vengeance, see At last for power, but first for life, 16 82 TIUE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. In W5iddin's walls too proudly sate, But what could single slavery do? Our Pachas rallied round the state; Avenge his lord? alas! too late; Nor last nor least in high command, Or save his son from such a fate? Each brother led a separate band; He chose the last, and when elate They gave their horsetails to the wVind,32 \With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, And mustering in Sophia's plain Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, Their tents were pitch'd, their posts assign'd; He led me helpless to his gate, To one, alas! assign'cl in vain! And not in vain it seems essay'd What need of words? the deadly bowl, To save the life for which he pray'd. By Giaffir's order drugged and given, The knowledge of my birth secured With venom subtle as his soul, From all and each, but most from me; Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. Reclined and feverish in the bath, Removed he too from Roumelie IHe, when the hunter's sport was up, To this our Asiatic side, But little deem'd a brother's wrath Far from our seats by Danube's tide, To quench his thirst had such a cup: With none but Haroun, who retains The bowl a bribed attendant bore; Such knowlede —and that Nubian feels He drank one draught, nor needed more! 33 A tyrant's secrets are but chains, If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, From which the captive gladly'steals, Call Haroun-lie canl tell it out. And this and more to me reveals: Such still to guilt just Alla sendsxv. Slaves, tools, accomplices —no friends! "The deed once done, an-d Paswan's feud In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, xNII. Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'dl:- "All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; TLLhou know'st not what in our Divan But harsher still my tale must be: Can wealth procure for worse than man — Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, Abdallah's honours were obtain'd Yet I must prove all truth to thee. By him a brother's murder stain'd; I saw thee start this garb to see,'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd Yet is it one I oft have worn, His ill got treasure, soon replaced. And long must wear: this Galiongee, Would'st question whence? Survey the To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, w aste, Is leader of those pirate hordes, And ask the squalid peasant how WVhose laws and lives are on their swords; His gains repay his broiling brow!- To hear whose. desolating tale Why me the stern usurper spared, Would mnake thy waning cheek more pale: l Why thus with me his palace shared, Those arms thou seest my band have brought, I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, The hands that wield are not remote; And little fear from infant's force; This cup too for the rugged knaves Besides, adoption as a son Is fill'd-once quaff'd, they ne'er repine: By him whom HI-eaven accorded none, Our Prophet might forgive the slaves; Or some unnknown cabal, caprice, They're only infidels in wine! Preserved me thus; but not in peace: He cannot curb his haughty mood, XVIII. Nor I forgive a father's blood! "1 hat could I be? Proscribed at home, And taunted to a wish to roam; xTI. And listless left-for Giaffir's fear " Within thy father's house are foes; Denied the courser and the spear — Not all who break his bread are true: Though oft-Oh, Mahomet! how oft!To these should I my birth disclose, In'full Divan the despot scoff'd, His days, his very hours, were few: As if my weak unwilling hand They only want a heart to lead, Refused the bridle or the brand: A hand to point them to the deed. He ever went to war alone, But Haroin only knows-or knew- And pent me here untried-unknown; This tale, whose close is almost nigh: To Haroumi's care with women left, He in Abdallah's palace grew, 1 By hope unblest, of fame bereft. And held that post in his Serai While thou-^whose softness long endear'd, Which holds he here —he saw him die:, Though it unmann'd mne, still had cheer'd-! IL _ _1_...._ THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 83 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, Ay!!let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam,7 Awaited'st there the field's event. Or only know on land the Tartar's home!38 Haroun, who saw my spirit pining My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, Are more than cities and Serais to me: His captive, though with dread, resigning, Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, My thraldom for a season broke, Across the desert, or before the gale, On promise to return before Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou! Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; "'T is vain-my tongue can not impart The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark! My almost drunkenness of heart, Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, When first this liberated eye Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, As if my spirit pierced them through, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! And all their inmost wonders knew! Blest-as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall One word alone can paint to thee To pilgrims pare and prostrate at his call; That more than feeling-I was Free! Soft —as the melody of youthful days, Ev'n for thy presence ceased to pine; That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise; The Waorld —nayy-Heaven itself was mine! Dear-as his native song to Exile's ears, Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. XIX. For thee in those bright isles is built a bower "The shallop of a trusty Moor Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour.39 Convey'd me from this idle shore; A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, I long'd to see the isles that gem Wait-wave-defend-destroy-at thy command! Old Ocean's purple diadem: Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, I sought by turns, and saw them all;34 The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. But when and where I join'd the crew, The Haram's languid years of listless ease With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall, Are well resign'd for cares-for joys like these: When all that we design to do Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, Is done,'t will then be time more meet Unnumber'd perils-but one only love! To tell thee, when the tale's complete. Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. xx. i-low dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, "'T is true, they are a lawless brood, Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still! But rough in form, nor mild in mood; Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown; And every creed, and every race, To thee be Selim's tender as thine own; With them hath found-may find-a place: To soothe each sorrow, share in each deligllt, But open speech, and ready hand, Blend every thought, do all —but disunite! Obedience to their chief's command; Once free,'tis mine our horde again to guide; A soul for every enterprise, Friends to each other, foes to aught beside: That never sees with terror's eyes; Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd Friendship for each, and faith to all, By fatal Nature to man's warring kind: And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, M\,Iark! where his carnage and his conquests cease! Have made them fitting instruments He makes a solitude, and calls it-peace! For more than ev'n my own intents. I like the rest must use my skill or strength, And some —and I have studied all But ask no land beyond my sabre's length: Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, Power sways but by division-her resource But chiefly to my council call The blest alternative of fraud or force! The wisdom of the cautious Frank- Ouis be the last; in time deceit may come And some to higher thoughts aspire, When cities cage us in a social home: The last of Lambro's patriots there 5 There ev'n thy soul might err-how oft the heart Anticipated freedom share; Corruption shakes which peril could not part! And oft around the cavern fire And woman, more than man, when death or woe, On visionary schemes debate, Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 30 Sunk in the lap of Ltxury will shameSo let them ease their hearts with prate Away Suspicion! —not Zuleil.a's name! Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew: [ But life is hazard at the best, and here I have a love for freedom too. No more remains to win, and much to fear: THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. "............-. 241. Yes, fear!-the doubt, the dread of losing thee, No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms; Which love to-night hath promised to my sail]:, Earth-sea alike-our world within our arms! _,,\; ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~H~////~ _j~i _. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Ay-let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, They part, pursue, return, and wheel So that those arms cling closer round my neck: With searching flambeau, shining steel; The deepest murmur of this lip shall be And last of all, his sabre waving, No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee!