Dear as his native song to exile's ears, Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, Immediately after succeeded another note:-"Did you look out? Is it Medina or Mecca that contains the Holy Sepulchre? Don't make me blaspheme by your negligence. I blush, as a good Mussulman, to have confused the point." After all these various changes, the couplet in question ultimately assumed its present form.-P. E. (1) Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman paradise. (2) "You wanted some reflections; and I send you, per Selim, eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not an ethical, tendency. One more revise-positively the last, if decently done-at any rate, the penultimate. Mr. Can But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape! XXI. "His head and faith from doubt and death No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, I form the plan, decree the spoil, But yet, though thou art plighted mine, XXII. Zuleika, mute and motionless, Far, wide, through every thicket spread, ning's approbation, I need not say, makes me proud. To make you some amends for eternally pestering you with alterations, I send you Cobbett,-to confirm your orthodoxy Lord B. to Mr. M.-L. E. (3) Originally, "He leaves a solitude," etc.-P. E. (4) Originally, "Then if my lip once murmurs, it must be."-P. E. • Mr. Canning's note was as follows:-"I received the books, and among them, the Bride of Abydos. It is very very beautiful. Lord Byron (when I met him, one day, at a dinner, at Mr. Ward's) was so kind as to promise to give me a copy of it. I mention this, not to save my purchase, but because I should be really flattered by the present,” -L. E. XXIII. Dauntless he stood-""Tis come-soon past- But yet my band not far from shore His pistol's echo rang on high, Despair benumb'd her breast and eye!- Yet stay within-here linger safe, One bound he made, and gain'd the sand: A gasping head, a quivering trunk: And almost met the meeting wave: XXV. Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, And the last death-blow dealt his hand- For her his eye but sought in vain ? Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. Sad proof, in peril and in pain, (1) "While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron saw the body of a man, who had been executed by being cast into the sea, floating on the stream, moving to and fro with the trembling of the water, which gave to his arms the effect of scaring away several sca-fowl that were When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball- XXVI. 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? And cast on Lemnos' shore: His head heaves with the heaving billow; Then levell'd with the wave-(1) What recks it, though that corse shall lie Within a living grave? The bird that tears that prostrate form The only heart, the only eye And mourn'd above his turban-stone, (2) That heart hath burst-that eye was closedYea-closed before his own! XXVII. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! Thy destined lord is come too late: Can he not hear The loud Wul-wulleh (3) warn his distant ear? The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, hovering to devour. This incident has been strikingly depicted." Galt.-P. E. (2) A turban is carved in stone above the graves of mer only. (3) The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, Tell him thy tale! Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! That fearful moment when he left the cave Thy heart grew chill: He was thy hope-thy joy-thy love-thine allAnd 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! Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: (2) "Where is my child?"—an echo answers-" Where?" XXVIII. Within the place of thousand tombs That shine beneath, while dark above Like early unrequited Love, slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public. (1) Originally, "living heart.”—P. E. (2) "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, "The friends of my youth, where are they?' and an echo answered Where are they?"-From an Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader: it is given in the first annotation, p. 67, of The Pleasures of Memory; a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous; but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur. (3) "And airy tongues, that syllable men's names."Millon. For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven (see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other instances, bring this su perstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing-bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letters. 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 her shower, To it the livelong night there sings 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, That melancholy spell, And longer yet would weep and wake, He sings so wild and well! But when the day-blush bursts from high, And some have been who could believe, Yet harsh be they that blame,) "Tis from her cypress summit heard, That white rose takes its tender birth. (4) "The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, is all purity and loveliness. Never was a faultless character more delicately or more justly delineated. Her piety, her intelligence, her strict sense of duty, and her undeviating love of truth, appear to have been originally blended in her mind, rather than inculcated by education. She is always natural, always attractive, always affectionate; and it must be admitted that her affections are not unworthily bestowed. Selim, while an orphan and dependant, is never degraded by calamity; when better hopes are presented to him, his buoyant spirit rises with his expectations: he is enterprising, with no more rashness than becomes his youth; and when disappointed in the success of a well-concerted project, he meets, with intrepidity, the fate to which he is exposed through his own generous forbearance. To us. The Bride of Abydos appears to be, in every respect, superior to The Giaour, though, in point of diction, it has been, perhaps, less warmly admired. We will not argue this point, but will simply observe, that what is read with ease is generally read with rapidity; and that many beauties of style, which escape observation in a simple and connected narrative, would be forced on the reader's attention by abrupt and perplexing transitions. It is only when a tra veller is obliged to stop on his journey, that he is disposed to examine and admire the prospect." George Ellis.-L. E. It (1) "The Bride, such as it is, is my first entire composi tion of any length (except the Satire, and be d--d to it), for the Giaour is but a string of passages, and Childe Harold is, and I rather think always will be, unconcluded. was published on Thursday, the 2d of December; but how it is liked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not, is no fault of the public, against whom I can have no complaint. And there by night, reclined, 'tis said, "Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!" Where first it lay that mourning flower Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale; As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale! (1) But I am much more indebted to the tale than 1 can ever be to the most important reader; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination; from selfish regrets to vivid recollections; and recalled me to a country replete with the brightest and darkest, but always most lively, colours of my memory." B. Diary, Dec. 5, 1813.-L. E. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. MY DEAR MOORE,-I dedicate to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of (1) The Corsair was begun on the 18th, and finished on the 31st, of December, 1813; a rapidity of composition which, taking into consideration the extraordinary beauty of the poem, is, perhaps, unparalleled in the literary history of the country. Lord Byron states it to have been written "con amore, and very much from existence." In the origi nal MS. the chief female character was called Francesca, in whose person the author meant to delineate one of his acquaintance; but, while the work was at press, he changed the name to Medora.-L. E. This is inaccurate. Moore, in a note on the subject, states that the name "had been at first Genevra, not Francesca, as Mr. Dallas asserts."-P. E. (2) This political allusion having been objected to by a friend, Lord Byron sent a second dedication to Mr. Moore, with a request that he would "take his choice." it ran as follows: Your your own country, (2) the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, 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. imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded 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, (3) of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the "I have written to you a long letter of dedication, which I suppress, because, though it contained something relating to you, which every one had been glad to hear, yet there was too much about politics, and poesy, and all things whatsoever, ending with that topic on which most men are fluent, and none very amusing,— one's self. It might have been re-written; but to what purpose? My praise could add nothing to your well-earned and firmly-established fame; and with my most hearty admiration of your talents, and delight in your conversation, you are already acquainted. In availing myself of your friendly permission to inscribe this poem to you, I can only wish the offering were as worthy your acceptance, as your regard is dear to 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 us from the rough and barren rock on which 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 published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present, and will be of my future, regret. 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 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 preseat 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. (1) 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, January 2, 1814. (1) "It is difficult to say whether we are to receive this passage as an admission or a denial of the opinion to which it refers; but Lord Byron certainly did the public injustice, if he supposed it imputed to him the criminal actions with which many of his heroes were stained. Men no more expected to meet in Lord Byron the Corsair, who knew himself a villain," than they looked for the hypocrisy of Kehama on the shores of the Derwent Water, or the profligacy of Marmion on the banks of the Tweed." Sir Walter Scott.-L. E. (2) The time in this poem may seem too short for the ? These are our realms, no limits to their sway- II. a Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle (3) occurrences, but the whole of the Agean isles are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it. (3) "There were two islands in the Archipelago when Lord Byron was in Greece, considered as the chief haunts of the pirates-Stampalia, and a long narrow island be tween Cape Colonna and Zea. Jura also was a little tainted in its reputation. I think, however, from the description, that the Pirate's isle of the Corsair is the island off Cape Colouna. It is a rude rocky mass." Gall.-P. E. |