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“ Tis true, they are a lawless brood, Though fortune frowa, or falser friends But rough in form, nor mild in mood;
betray. And every creed, and every race,
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, With them hath found—may find a place: Should all be changed, to find thee faithful But open speech, and ready hand,
still! Obedience to their chief's command, Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown; A soul for every enterprize,
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own; That never sees with terror's eyes, To soothe each sorrow,share in each delight, Friendship for each, and faith to all, Blend every thought, do all-but disunite! And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; Have made them fitting instruments Friends to each other, foes to anght beside: For more than even my own intents. Yet there we follow but the bent assiga'd And some-and I have studied all By fatal nature to man's warring kind : Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, Mark! where his carnage and his conquests But chiefly to my council call
cease! The wisdom of the cautious Frank He makes a solitude, and calls it-peace! And some to higher thoughts aspire, I like the rest must use my skill or strength, The last of Lambro's patriots there But ask no land beyond my sabre's length: Anticipated freedom share;
Power sways but by division-her resource And oft around the cavern-fire
The blest alternative of fraud or force ! On visionary schemes debate,
Ours be the last; in time deceit may come To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. When cities cage us in a social home : So let them ease their hearts with prate There even thy soul might err-how oft Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ;
the heart I have a love for freedom too.
Corruption shakes which peril could not Ay! let me like the Ocean-Patriarch roam,
part ! Or only know on land the Tartar's home! And woman, more than man, when death My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are more than cities and Serais to me: Or even Disgrace would lay her lover low, Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame Across the desert, or before the gale, Away suspicion !-- not Zuleika's name! Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, But life is hazard at the best; and here
No more remains to win, and much to fear: But be the star that guides the wanderer, Ycs, fear!—the doubt, the dread of losing Thou !
thee, Thou my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. The Dove of peace and promise to inine ark! That dread shall vanish with the favouring Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife,
gale, Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! Which Love to-night hath promised to my The evening-beam that smiles the clouds
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
blest, Blest—as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's Their steps still roving, but their hearts wall
at rest. To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call: With thce all toils are sweet, each clime Soft-as the melody of youthful days,
hath charms; That steals the trembling tear of speechless Earth-sea alike our world within our
praise; Dear--as his native song to Exile's ears, Ay- let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice so that those arms cling closer round my endears,
neck : For thee in those bright isles is built a bower The deepest murmur of this lip shall be Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee! A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and The war of eleinents no fears impart
To lore, whose deadliest bane is human Art: Wait
defend destroy at thy There lie the only rocks our course can check; command !
Here moments menace - there are years of Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side,
wreck! The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's The Haram's languid years of listless ease
shape! Are well resign?d for cares--for joys like This hour bestows, or ever bars escape.
Few words remain of mine my tale to close; Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, Of thine but one to waft us from our foes; Unnumber'd perils—but one only love! Yea- foes-to me will Giaffir's hate decline? Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, / And is not Osman, who would part us, thine?
“His head and faith from doubt and death Farewell, Zuleika !-Sweet! retire: Return'd in time my guard to save ; Yet stay within-here linger safe, Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave At thee his rage will only chafe. From isle to isle I roved the while: Stir not-lest even to thee perchance And since, though parted from my band Some erring blade or ball should glanco. Too seldom now I leave the land,
Fear'st thou for him ?-may I expire No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, If in this strife I seek thy sire! Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : No—though by him that poison pour'd; I form the plan, decree the spoil,
No—though again he call me coward ! Tis fit I oftener share the toil.
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? But now too long I've held thine ear; No-as each crest save his may feel!" Time presses, floats my bark, and here We leave behind but hate and fear.
One bound he made, and gaind the sand : To-morrow Osman with his train
Already at his feet hath sunk Arrives—to-night must break thy chain:
The foremost of the prying band, And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, A gasping head, a quivering trunk: Perchance his life who gave thee thine,
Another falls—but round him close With me this hour away-away!
A swarming circle of his foes; But yet though thou art plighted mine,
From right to left his path he cleft, Wouldst thou recal thy willing vow, And almost met the meeting wave: Appallid by truths imparted now,
His boat appears—not five oars' length Here rest 1-not to see thee wed:
His comrades strain with desperate strength. But be that peril on my head!”
Oh! are they yet in time to save ?
His feet the foremost breakers lave; Zuleika, mute and motionless,
His band are plunging in the bay, Stood like that statue of distress,
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; When, her last hope for ever gone,
Wet-wild-unwearied to the strand The mother harden'd into stone;
They struggle—now they touch the land ! All in the maid that eye could see
They come—'tis but to add to slaughterWas but a younger Niobé.
His heart's best blood is on the water! But ere her lip, or even her eye, Essay'd to speak, or look reply,
Escaped from shot, unharm’d by steel, Beneath the garden's wicket porch Or scarcely grazed it's force to feel, Far flash'd on high a blazing torch! Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, Another—and another-and another- To where the strand and billows met: “Oh! fly—no more—yet now iny more than There as his last step left the land,
And the last death-blow dealt his handFar, wide, through every thicket spread, Ah! wherefore did he turn to look The fearful lights are gleaming red ; For her bis eye but sought in vain ? Nor these alone—for each right hand That pause, that fatal gaze he took, Is ready with a sheathless brand.
Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. They part, pursue, return, and wheel Sad proof, in peril and in pain, With searching flambeau, shining steel; How late will Lover's hope remain! And last of all, his sabre waving, His back was to the dashing spray, Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, And now almost they touch the cave- When, at the instant, hiss'd the ballOh! must that grot be Selim's grave? “So may the foes of Giaffir fall!"
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? Dauntless he stood—“'Tis come-soon
Whose bullet through the night-air sang.. past
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: Yet now too few-the attempt were rash:
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, No matter—yet one effort more."
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling -Forth to the cavern-mouth he stept;
If aught his lips essay'd to groan, His pistol's echo rang on high.
The rushing billows choak’d the tone! Zuleika started not, nor wept, Despair benumb’d her breast and eye!-- Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; “They hear me not, or if they ply Few trophies of the fight are there: Their oars, 'tis but to see me die;
The shouts that shook the midniglıt-bar. That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. Are silent; but some signs of fray Then forth my father's scimitar,
That strand of strife may bear, Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war! And fragments of each shiver'd brand;
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly The print of many a struggling hand
night, May there be mark'd; nor far remote That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes A broken torch, an oarless boat;
the light, And tangled on the weeds that heap That winds around, and tears the quivering The beach where shelving to thee deep
heart! There lies a white Capote!
Ah! wherefore not consume it - and depart! Tis rent in twain-one dark-red stain Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! The wave yet ripples o’er in vain : Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, But where is he who wore ?
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost Ye! who would o'er his relics weep
spread: Go, seek them where the surges sweep By that same hand Abdallah -- Selim bled. Their burthen round Sigæum's steep Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief : And cast on Lemnos' shore:
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for
Osman's The sea-birds shriek above the prey, O'er which their hungry beaks delay, She, whom thy sultan had but seen to As shaken on his restless pillow, His head heaves with the heaving hillow; Thy Daughter's dead ! That hand, whose motion is not life,
Hope of thi
age, thy twilight's lonely Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
beam, Flung by the tossing tide on high, The Star hath set that shone on Helle's Then levell’d with the wave
stream. What recks it, though that corse shall lie What quench'd its rays ? - the blood that Within a living grave?
thou hast shed ! The bird that tears that prostrate form Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: Hath only robb’d the meaner worm;
“Where is my child?" an Echo answersThe only heart, the only eye
“ Where?" Had bled or wept to see him die, Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, Within the place of thousand tombs And mourn'd above his turban-stone, That shine beneath, while dark above That heart hath burst-that eye was closed — The sad but living cypress glooms Yea-closed before his own!
And withers not, though branch and leaf
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,
Even in that deadly grove -
It looks as planted by Despair-
To-morrow sees it bloom again! Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! The stalk some spirit gently rears, That fearful moment when he left the cave And waters with celestial tears; Thy heart grew chill:
For well may maids of Helle dcem He was thy hope-- thy joy-thy love - thinc That this can be no earthly flower,
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And that last thought on him thou couldst And buds unshelter'd by a bower;
Nordroops, though spring refuse her shower, Sufficed to kill;
Nor woos the summer-beam :
was thy first ! His long entrancing note! Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force it were the Bulbul; but his throat, Of absence, shame, pride, bate, revenge, Though mournful, pours not such a strain :
For they who listen cannot leave
As if they loved in vain!
'Tis gorrow so unmix'd with drend,
They scarce can bear the morn to break There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed-the Morrow gone!
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ;
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell; And some have been who could believe Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, Denied his bones a holier grave: Ņet harsh be they that blame)
And there, by night, reclined, 'tis said That note so piercing and profound Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : Will shape and syllable its sound
And hence extended by the billow, Into Zuleika's name.
'Tis named the “Pirate-phantom's pillow!" Tis from her cypress' summit heard, Where first it lay that mourning flower That melts in air the liquid word:
Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour, 'Tis from her lowly virgin-earth
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale; That white rose takes its tender birth. As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!
Α Τ Α Ι Ε.
-I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno."
daughters, may there be found; and ColTHOMAS MOORE, ESQ.
Jins, when he denominated his Oriental his
Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, MY DEAR MOORE,
at least, was a part of his parallel. Your I DEDICATE to you the last production with imagination will create a warmer sun, and which I shall trespass on public patience, less cloudy sky; but wildness, tenderness, and your indulgence, for some years; and and originality are part of your national I own that I feel anxious to avail myself claim of oriental descent, to which you of this latest and only opportunity of adorn- bave already thus far proved your title ing my pages with a name, consecrated more clearly than the most zealous of your by unshaken public principle, and the most country's antiquarians. andonbted and various talents. While May I add a few words on a subject on Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her which all men are supposed to be fluent, patriots ; while you stand alone the first of and none agreeable?-Self. I have written her bards in her estimation, and Britain much, and published inore than enough to repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, demand a longer silence than I now mediwhose only regret, since our first acquaint- tate; but for some years to come it is my ance, has been the years he had lost before intention to tempt no further the award of it commenced, to add the humble but sin- "Gods, men, nor columns.” In the present cere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of composition I have attempted not the most more than one nation. It will at least prove difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted to you, that I have neither forgotten the measure to our language, the good old and gratification derived from your society, nor now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza abandoned the prospect of its renewal, of Spenser is perhaps too slow and digniwhenever your leisure or inclination allows fied for narrative; though I confess, it is you to atone to your friends for too long the measure most after my own heart. Scott an absence. It is said among those friends, alone, of the present generation, has hitherto I trust truly, that you are engaged in the completely triumphed over the fatal facicomposition of a poem whose scene will be lity of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is laid in the East ; none can do those scenes not the least victory of his fertile and so much justice. The wrongs of your own mighty genius: in blank verse, Milton, country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beaher sons, the beauty and feeling of her Icons that shine along the deep, but warn
us from the rough and barren rock on which | These are our realms, no limits to their they are kindled. The heroic couplet is
sway not the most popular measure certainly; Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. but as I did not deviate into the other from Ours the wild life in tumult still to rango a wish to flatter what is called public opi- From toil to rest, and joy in every change. nion, I shall quit it without further apo-Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious logy, and take my chance once more with
slave! that versification, in which I have hitherto Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving published nothing but compositions whose
wave; former circulation is part of my present and Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! will be of my future regret.
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure canWith regard to my story, and stories in
not pleasegeneral, I should have been glad to have Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart rendered my personages more perfect and
hath tried, amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, been sometimes criticised, and considered The exulting sense—the pulse's maddening no less responsible for their deeds and qua
play, lities than if all had been personal. Be it That thrills the wanderer of that trackless 80- if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of “drawing from self," the pictures That for itself can woo the approaching are probably like, since they are unfavour
fight, able; and if not, those who know me are And turn what some deem danger to delight; undeceived, and those who do not, I have That seeks what cravens shun with more little interest in undeceiving. I have no
than zeal, particular desire that any but my acquaint-And where the feebler faint-can only feelance 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 foesment, at some odd critical exceptions in Save that it seems even duller than repose: the present instance, when I see several Come when it will—we snatch the life of bards (far more deserving, I allow), in
lifevery reputable plight, and quite exempted When lost-what recks it--by disease or from all participation in the faults of those
strife? heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, with little more morality than “The Giaour,” | Cling to his couch, and sicken years away, and perhaps - but no—I must admit Childe Heave his thick breath, and shake his palHarold to be a very repulsive personage;
sied head; and as to his identity, those who like it Ours—the fresh turf, and not the feverish must give him whatever "alias" they please.
bed. If, however, it were worth while to re- While gasp by gasp he salters forth his sonl, move the impression, it might be of some Ours with one pang—one bound-escapes service to me, that the man who is alike
control. the delight of his readers and his friends, His corse may boast urn and narrow cave, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his And they who loathed his life may gild his own, permits me here and elsewhere to
grave: subscribe myself,
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely most truly and affectionately,
shed, his obedient servant, When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our BYRON.
dead. January 2, 1814.
For us even banquets fond regret supply
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each nessun maggior dolore,
How had the brave who fell exulted now.'”
“O'br 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!
Such were the notes that from the Pi
rate's isle, Around the kindling watch-fire rang the
while; Such were the sounds that thrillid the rocke