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There late was laid a marble stone;

They scarce can bear the morn to break That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake, He sings so wild and well!

Eve saw it placed -the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ;

But when the day-blush bursts from high For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,
Yet harsh be they that blame)
That note so piercing and profound
Will shape and syllable its sound
Inte Zuleika's name.

Tis from her cypress' summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word:
Tis from her lowly virgin-earth

That white rose takes its tender birth.

Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell;
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave:

And there, by night, reclined, 'tis said
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:
And hence extended by the billow,
"Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!"
Where first it lay that mourning flower
Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!

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TO

THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. MY DEAR MOORE, DICATE to you the last production with I shall trespass on public patience, your indulgence, for some years; and that I feel anxious to avail myself latest and only opportunity of adornby pages with a name, consecrated by shaken public principle, and the most debted and various talents. While and ranks you among the firmest of her ts; while you stand alone the first of beards in her estimation, and Britain and ratifies the decree, permit one, We only regret, since our first acquainthas been the years he had lost before eremenced, to add the humble but sinsaffrage of friendship, to the voice of than one nation. It will at least prove y that I have neither forgotten the iration derived from your society, nor doned the prospect of its renewal, ver your leisure or inclination allows atone to your friends for too long nce. It is said among those friends, It truly, that you are engaged in the position of a poem whose scene will be and in the East; none can do those scenes ach justice. The wrongs of your own try, the magnificent and fiery spirit of was, the beauty and feeling of her

daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less cloudy sky; but wildness, tenderness, and originality are part of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians.

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but for some years to come it is my intention to tempt no further the award of "Gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though I confess, it is the measure most after my own heart. Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn

sway-

Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to ran
From toil to rest, and joy in every chang
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurio
slave!

us from the rough and barren rock on which | These are our realms, no limits to the they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure certainly; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification, in which I have hitherto Whose soul would sicken o'er the heavin published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present and will be of my future regret.

wave;

Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and eas Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure ca not please

Oh, who can tell, save he whose hea hath tried,

And danced in triumph o'er the waters wid The exulting sense-the pulse's maddenin play,

That thrills the wanderer of that trackle way?

That for itself can woo the approachi fight,

And turn what some deem danger to deligh That seeks what cravens shun with mo than zeal,

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so-if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of "drawing from self," the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaint- And where the feebler faint-can only feel ance should think the author better than Feel—to the rising bosom's inmost core, the beings of his imagining; but I cannot Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse-No dread of death-if with us die our foes ment, at some odd critical exceptions in Save that it seems even duller than repos the present instance, when I see several Come when it will-we snatch the life bards (far more deserving, I allow), in lifevery reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than "The Giaour," and perhaps but no—I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever "alias" they please. If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself,

most truly and affectionately,
his obedient servant,
BYRON.

January 2, 1814.

CANTO I

-nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria-
DANTE.

"O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls
as free.
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows
foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home!

When lost-what recks it by disease strife?

Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, Cling to his couch, and sicken years awa Heave his thick breath, and shake his p sied head; Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feveri bed.

While gasp by gasp he falters forth his so
Ours with one pang-one bound—esca|
control.

His corse may boast its urn and narrow ca
And they who loathed his life may gild

grave:

Ours are the tears, though few, sincere shed,

When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres e
dead.

For us even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide t

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And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,
They game-carouse-converse-or whet
the brand;
Select the arms-to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its
shine;

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the
shore;

For the wild bird the busy springes set,
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net;
Gaze where some distant sail a speck
supplies,

With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;
Tell 'er the tales of many a night of toil,
And marvel where they next shall seize a
spoil:

No matter where-their chief's allotment
this;

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss.
But who that CHIEF? his name on every

shore

famed and fear'd—they ask and know no

more.

With these he mingles not but to command;
I are his words, but keen his eye and

hand.

Yer seasons he with mirth their jovial

mess,

A they forgive his silence for success.

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The tidings spread, and gathering grows
the crowd:
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud,
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard –

Friends'-husbands'-lovers' names in each
dear word:

for his lip the purpling cup they fill, "Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success

That goblet passes him untasted still
And for his fare-the rudest of his crew
Honid that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too;
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's home-
liest roots,
And scarce the summer-luxury of fruits,
hort repast in humbleness supply
Wall a hermit's board would scarce deny.
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,
His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence.
Steer to that shore!"—they sail. “Do

this!" 'tis done:

Now form and follow me!"-the spoil is

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But shall we see them? will their accents
bless?

From where the battle roars - the billows
chafe-
They doubtless boldly did - but who are
safe?

Here let them haste to gladden and surprize,
And kiss the doubt from these delighted
eyes!".___

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What lonely straggler looks along the wave?
In pensive posture leaning on the brand,
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?
"Tis he 'tis Conrad-here-as wont-
alone;
On-Juan! on- and make our purpose known.
The bark he views-and tell him we would
greet

Still sways their souls with that comma ing art

That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vul heart.

What is that spell, that thus his law train

Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? What should it be? that thus their fa can bind?

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet: We dare not yet approach-thou know'st his, The power of Thought-the magic of mood,

Mind!

When strange or uninvited steps intrude." Link'd with success, assumed and kept w skill, That moulds another's weakness to its w

unknown,

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent-Wields with their hands, but, still to t He spake not-but a sign express'd assent. TheseJuan calls-they come to their salute He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. "These letters, Chief, are from the Greek-

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the spy,

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report,
Much that"-"Peace, peace!"-He cuts their
prating short.
Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each

to each

Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech:
They watch his glance with many a steal-
ing look,

To gather how that eye the tidings took;
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside,
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or
pride,

He read the scroll-"My tablets, Juan,
hark

Where is Gonsalvo?"

"In the anchor'd bark." "There let him stay-to him this order bear. Back to your duty-for my course prepare: Myself this enterprize to-night will share." "To-night, Lord Conrad?"

"Ay! at set of sun: The breeze will freshen when the day is

done.

My corslet-cloak-one hour-and we are

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Makes even their mightiest deeds app

his own.

Such hath it been-shall be- beneath the "Tis Nature's doom-but let the wretch The many still must labour for the one

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His features' deepening lines and varying
As if within that murkiness of mind
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the vi
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefin
Such might it be-that none could tr

tell

Too close inquiry his stern glance wo quell.

There breathe but few whose aspect mi

defy

The full encounter of his searching eye He had the skill, when Cunning's g would seek

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,

once the observer's purpose to espy,
And on himself roll back his scrutiny,
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray
Some secret thought, than drag that chief's
to day.

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer,
hat raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
hope withering fled-and Mercy sigh'd
farewell!

He hated man too much to feel remorse,
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,
To pay the injuries of some on all.

He knew himself a villain- but he deem'd
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd;
| And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.
He knew himself detested, but he knew
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and
dreaded too.

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike
exempt
From all affection and from all contempt:

Sight are the outward signs of evil His name could sadden, and his acts surprise;
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise :
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake
The slumbering venom of the folded snake:
The first may turn-but not avenge the

thought, Within-within-'twas there the spirit wrought! Love shows all changes-Hatc, Ambition, Guile,

May no further than the bitter smile;

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness

thrown

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blow;

The last expires-but leaves no living foe;
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings,
And he may crush-not conquer-still it
stings!

None are all evil - quickening round his
heart,

One softer feeling would not yet depart;
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled
By passions worthy of a fool or child;
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,
And even in him it asks the name of Love!
Yes, it was love-unchangeable-unchanged,
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;
Though fairest captives daily met his eye,
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd
them by;

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd

bower

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.
Yes it was Love if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet -Oh more than all!-untired by
time;

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile
Could render sullen were she near to smile,
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent;
Which still would meet with joy, with
calmness part,
Lest that his look of grief should reach
her heart;

Which nought removed, nor menaced to

remove

If there be love in mortals - this was love!
He was a villain - ay-reproaches shower
On him-but not the passion, nor its power,
Which only proved, all other virtues gone,
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest

one!

d too wise, in conduct there a fool; Tim to yield, and far too proud to stoop, d by his very virtues for a dupe, Hearsed those virtues as the cause of ill, ad at the traitors who betray'd him still; deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men dad left him joy, and means to give again. Prard - shunn'd belied-ere youth had Pass'd the first winding downward to the

lost her force,

He paused a moment-till his hastening

men

glen.

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