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DEDICATION.

131

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I louded 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 acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than << The Giaour,» and perhaps—but no-I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever << alias»> they please.

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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.

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Far as the breeze c
Survey our empire
These are our realr
Our flag the sceptre
Ours the wild life in

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That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint-can only feel-
Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core,

Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?

No dread of death-if with us die our foes-
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will-we snatch the life of life;
When lost-what recks it—by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamoured of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!»>

II.

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle,
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while;

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