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

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

Yea-closed before his own!

His jaod 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 Giaför fall!” Whose voice is heard? wliose carbine

rang? Whose bullet through the night-air sang, Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 'Tis thine-Abdallali's Murderer! The father slowly rued thy hate, The son hath found a quicker fate: Fast from his breast the blood is bub

bling, The whiteness of the sea-foam troub

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'l; nor far remote

A bioken 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,

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail!
And woman's eye is wet--man's cheek

is pale:
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race,
Thy destined lord is come too late:
He sees not-ne'er shall see thy face !

Can he not hear
The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant

ear? Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, The silent slaves with folded arms that

wait, Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the


Tell him thy tale !
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall!

That fearful moment when he left the


Thy heart grew chill: He was thy hope—thy joy—thy love

thine all, And that last thought on him thou

couldst not save

Sufficed to kill ; Burst forth in one wild cry-and all was

still. Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin

grave! Ah! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! That grief-though deep-though fatal

was thy first! Thrice happy ne'er to feel nor fear the

force Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge,

remorse! And, oh! that pang where more than

madness lies!

dies ;

The worm that will not sleep-and never Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly

night, That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes

the light, That winds around, and tears the quiver

ing heart! Ah! wherefore not consume it-and

depart ! Woe to thee, raslı 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


Thy Daughter's dead! Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely

beam, The Star hath set that shoue on Helle's

stream. What quench'd its ray ?-the blood that

thou diast shell ! Hark! to the hurried question of Despair : “ Where is my child ?”-an Echo an

swers—" Where?Within the place of thousand tombs

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

Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,

Like early unrequited Love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,

Evin in that deally 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 inore rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem-in vain

To-morrow sees it bloom again : whe stalk soine 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

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 mote!
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. Aud 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 place:l-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; Lashid 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 Power

Hath flourish'd ; tourisheth this hour, Alove and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's

tale ! November, 1813. November 29, 1813.

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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

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'll 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 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, 1 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 triumphıs 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 niglit?
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:

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 rifeAll quell'd !-Dark Spirit! what must be The madness of thy memory! The Desolator desolate !

The Victor overtlırown! 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 cleath 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 le 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 prowlers' prey ;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

1 The Emperor Charles V

Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make

mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful

flower, Thy still imperial bride ; How bears her breast the torturing

hour? Still clings she to thy side ? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide ? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,”T is worth thy vanish'd diadem!

But thou forsooth must be a king,

And don the purple vest,
As if that foolish robe could wring

Remembrance from thy breast. Where is that faded garment? where The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,

The star, the string, the crest? Vain froward child of empire ! say, Are all thy playthings snatched away? Where may the wearied eye repose

When gazing on the Great ; Where neither guilty glory glows,

Nor despicable state? Yes-one-the first-the last-the bestThe Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one !

April 9-10, 1814. April 16, 1814.


Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile

It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine ali idle hand
In loitering mood upon the sand

That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue ? hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage

What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?

But one-" The world was mine!"
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey d--so little worth !
Or, like the thief of fire from hearen,

Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,

His vulture and his rock! Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, And that last act, though not thy worst,

The very Fiend's archi mock; He in his fall preserved his pride And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! There was a day--there was an hour,

While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thine When that immeasurable power

Uusated to resign
Had been an act of purer fame
Than gathers round Marengo's name,

And gilded thy decline,
Through the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in lier aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face ; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling


And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that

But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

June 12, 1814. 1815.


BEAUTY'S BLOOM Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; And the wild cypress wave in tender

gloom : And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a

1 Dionysius the younger, tyrant of Syracuse, who after his second banishment earued his living by teaching, in Corinth.

dream, And lingering pause and lightly

tread : Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd

the dead ! Away ! we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears dis

tress : Will this unteach us to complain ?

Or make one mourner weep the less ? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

1814 or 1815. April 23, 1815. THE DESTRUCTION OF

SENNACHERIB THE Assyrian came down like the wolf

on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in pur

ple and gold : And the sheen of their spears was like

stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightıy on

deep Galilee.

And the tents were all silent, the ban

ners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet un

blown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in

their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of

Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote

by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

February 17, 1815. 1815.



WARRIORS and chiefs ! should the shaft

or the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the

Lord, Heed not the corse, though a king's, in

your path : Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Like the leaves of the forest when Sum

mer is green, That host with their banners at sunset

were seen : Like the leares of the forest when Au

tumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd

and strown.

Thou who art bearing my buckler and

bow, Should the soldiers of Saul look away

from the foe, Stretch me that moment in blood at thy

feet ! Mine be the doom which they dared not

to meet. Farewell to others, but never we part, Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! Bright is the diadem, boundless the

sway: Or kingly the death, which awaits us today!

1815. 1815.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings

on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as

he pass'd ; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd

deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and

for ever grew still !


"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros

Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."

GRAY'S Poemata,

And there lay the steed with his nostril

all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath

of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white

on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beat

ing surf.

THERE's not a joy the world can give like

that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines

in feeling's dull decay ; 'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the

blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere

youth itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the

wreck of happiness

And there lay the rider distorted and

pale. With the dew on his brow, and the rust

on his mail :

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