On visionary schemes debate,

To snatch the Rayals from their fate. So let them ease their hearts with prate Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; I have a love for freedom too.

Ay! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam Or only know on land the Tartar's home! My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are more than cities and Serais to me: Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, Across the desert, or before the gale, Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow!

But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou!

Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark;

The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark!

Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife,

Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life!

The evening beam that smiles the clouds

come

When cities cage us in a social home: There ev'n thy soul might err-how oft the heart

Corruption shakes which peril could not part!

And woman, more than man, whe death or woe,

Or even Disgrace, would lay her love: low,

Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame-Away suspicion !-not Zuleika's name! But life is hazard at the best; and here No more remains to win, and much to fear:

Yes, fear! the doubt, the dread of losing thee,

By Osman's power, and Giaflir's stern decree.

That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale,

Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail :

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest,

Their steps still roving, but their hearts

at rest.

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms;

Earth-sea alike-our world within ou

arms!

Ay-let the loud winds whistle o'er the

deck,

So that those arms cling closer round my neck:

"His head and faith from doubt and death

Return'd in time my guard to save;
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave
From isle to isle I roved the while;
And since, though parted from my band,
Too seldom now I leave the land,
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do,
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too:
I form the plan, decree the spoil,
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil.
But now too long I've held thine ear;
Time presses, floats my bark, and here
We leave behind but hate and fear.
To-morrow Osman with his train
Arrives-to-night must break thy chain:
And wouldst thou save that haughty
Bey,-

Perchance his life who gave thee thine,

With me this hour away-away!

But yet, though thou art plighted
mine,

Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow,
Appall'd by truths imparted now,
Here rest I- not to see thee wed:
But be that peril on my head ! ”

Zuleika, mute and motionless,
Stood like that statue of distress,
When, her last hope for ever gone,
The mother harden'd into stone:
All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niobe.

But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Essay'd to speak, or look reply,
Beneath the garden's wicket porch
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch!

Another-and another-and another"Oh! fly-no more-yet now my more than brother!"

Far, wide, through every thicket spread
The fearful lights are gleaming red;
Nor these alone-for each right hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand.
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau, shining steel;
And last of all, his sabre waving,
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:
And now almost they touch the cave-
Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave?
Dauntless he stood-"Tis come-soon
past-

One kiss, Zuleika-'tis my last :

But yet my band not far from shore May hear this signal, see the flash; Yet now too few-the attempt were rash:

No matter-yet one effort more." Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; His pistol's echo rang on high, Zuleika started not, nor wept,

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye!

"They hear me not, or if they ply

Their oars 'tis but to see me die;
That sound hath drawn my foes more
nigh.

Then forth my father's scimitar,
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war!
Farewell, Zuleika !-sweet! retire:

Yet stay within--here linger safe,
At thee his rage will only chafe.
Stir not--lest even to thee perchance
Some erring blade or ball should glance.
Fear'st thou for him?--may I expire
If in this strife I seek thy sire!
No-though by him that poison pour'd;
No-though again he call me coward!
But tamely shall I meet their steel?
No--as each crest save his may feel!"

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand:

Already at his feet hath sunk The foremost of the prying band,

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : Another falls-but round him close A swarming circle of his foes; From right to left his path he cleft,

And almost met the meeting wave: His boat appears-nct five oars' lengthHis comrades strain with desperate strength-

Oh! are they yet in time to save?
His feet the foremost breakers lave;

His and are plunging in the bay,
Their sabres glitter through the spray;
Wet-wild-unwearied to the strand
They struggle-now they touch the land!
They come 'tis but to add to slaughter-
His heart's best blood is on the water.

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel,
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel,
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset,
To where the strand and billows met;
There as his last step left the land-
And the last death-blow dealt his hand-
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look

For her his eye but sought in vain? That pause, that fatal gaze he took, Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain.

Sad proof, in peril and in pain,
How late will Lover's hope remain!
His back was to the dashing spray:
Behind, but close, his comrades lay,
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball-
"So may the foes of Giaffir fall!"
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine
rang?

Whose bullet through the night-air sang,
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err?
'Tis thine-Abdallah's Murderer!
The father slowly rued thy hate,
The son hath found a quicker fate:

Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,

The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling

If aught his lips essay'd to groan,
The rushing billows choked the tone!

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;

Few trophies of the fight are there: The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Are silent; but some signs of fray

That strand of strife may bear, And fragments of each shiver'd brand Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand

May there be mark'd; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat; And tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep There lies a white capote!

"T is rent in twain--one dark-red stain The wave yet ripples o'er in vain;

But where is he who wore? Ye! who would o'er his relics weep, Go, seek them where the surges sweep Their burthen round Sigæum's steep And cast on Lemnos' shore : The sea-birds shriek above the prey,

O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving
billow;

That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then levell'd with the wave-
What recks it, though that corse shall
lie

Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm;
The only heart, the only eye
Had bled or wept to see him die,
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed,
And mourn'd above his turban-stone,
That heart hath burst-that eye was
closed-

Yea-closed before his own!

The worm that will not sleep--and never dies;

Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,

That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light,

That winds around, and tears the quivering heart!

Ah! wherefore not consume it-and depart!

Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head,

Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread:

By that same hand Abdallah-Selim: bled.

Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief. Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed,

She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed,

Thy Daughter's dead!

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam,

The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream.

What quench'd its ray?—the blood that thou hast shed!

Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: "Where is my child?"-an Echo answers-Where?"

Within the place of thousand tombs

That shine beneath, while dark above The sad but living cypress glooms And withers not, though branch and leaf

Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,

Like early unrequited Love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Ev'n in that deadly grove-
A single rose is shedding there

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale:
It looks as planted by Despair-

So white- -so faint-the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high:

And yet, though storms and blight assail,

And hands more rude than wintry sky
May wring it from the stem-in vain-
To-morrow sees it bloom again:
The stalk some spirit gently rears,
And waters with celestial tears,

For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering

hour,

And buds unshelter'd by a bower;

Nor droops though Spring refuse bei shower,

Nor woos the summer beam:
To it the livelong night there sings
A bird unseen-but not remote:
Invisible his airy wings,

But soft as harp that Houri strings
His long entrancing note!

It were the Bulbul; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain:

For they who listen cannot leave
The spot, but linger there and grieve,
As if they loved in vain!

And yet so sweet the tears they shed,
'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread,
They scarce can bear the morn to break
That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well!
But when the day-blush bursts from high
Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe, (So fondly youthful dreams deceive,

Yet harsh be they that blame,) That note so piercing and profound Will shape and syllable its sound

Into Zuleika's name.

'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.
There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed-the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell.
Next morn'twas found where Selim fell;
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave;
And there by night, reclined, 't is said,
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:

And hence extended by the billow,
'Tis named the " Pirate-phantom's pil-
low!"

Where first it lay that mourning lower Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale; As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!

November, 1813. November 29, 1813.

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE "Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce

summo

Invenies?"-Juvenal, Sat. x.

"T IS done but yesterday a King! And arm'd with Kings to strive

And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject-yet alive!

Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones,

And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bow'd so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestion'd,-power to

save,

Thine only gift hath been the grave,
To those that worshipp'd thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!

Thanks for that lesson-It will teach
To after-warriors more,
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preach'd before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre sway
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

The triumph and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife-
The earthquake voice of Victory,

To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-

All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be The madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate!

The Victor overthrown!

The Arbiter of others' fate

A Suppliant for his own!

Is it some yet imperial hope

That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?

To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

He who of old would rend the oak,
Dream'd not of the rebound:
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-
Alone-how look'd he round?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowiers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home-
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:

Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung-
Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,

It is enough to grieve the heart

To see thine own unstrung;

To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean;

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling
limb,

And thank'd him for a throne!
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear

In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore
Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain :

If thou hadst died as honor dies.
Some new Napoleon might arise,

To shame the world again-
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just

To all that pass away:
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay :

1 The Emperor Charles V