The full of hope, misnamed “ forlorn,"
Who hold the thought of death in scorn,
And win their way with falchion's force,
Or pave the path with many a corse,
O'er which the following bravc may rise,
Their stepping-stone - the last who dies !

The Moslem warriors sternly teach
His skill to pierce the promised breach :
Within these walls a maid was pent
His hope would win, without consent
Of that inexorable sire,
Whose heart refused him in its ire,
When Alp, beneath his Christian name,
Her virgin hand aspired to claim.
In happier mood, and earlier time,
While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime,
Gayest in gondola or hall,
He glitter'd through the Carnival ;
And tuned the softest serenade
That e'er on Adria's waters play'd
At midnight to Italian maid. 1

VIII. And many deem'd her heart was won; For sought by numbers, given to none, Had young Francesca's hand remain'd Still by the church's bonds unchain'd: And when the Adriatic bore Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; More constant at confessional, More rare at masque and festival; Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize : With listless look she seems to gaze; With humbler care her form arrays; Her voice less lively in the song ; Her step, though light, less fleet among The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance Breaks, yet unsated with the dance.

XI. 'T is midnight: on the mountains brown The cold, round moon shines deeply down; Blue roll the waters, blue the sky Spreads like an occan hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light, So wildly, spiritually bright; Who ever gazed upon them shining And turn'd to earth without repining, Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, And mix with their eternal ray ? The waves on either shore lay there Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, But murmur'd meekly as the brook. The winds were pillow'd on the waves; The banners droop'd along their staves, And, as they fell around them furling, Above them shone the crescent curling; And that deep silence was unbroke, Save where the watch his signal spoke, Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, And echo answer'd from the hill, And the wide hum of that wild host Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, As rose the Muezzin's voice in air In midnight call to wonted prayer; It rose, that chanted mournful strain, Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, Such as when winds and harp-strings mect, And take a long unmeasured tone, To mortal minstrelsy unknown.

2 It seem'd to those within the wall A cry prophetic of their fall : It struck even the besieger's ear With something ominous and drear, An undefined and sudden thrill, Which makes the heart a moment still, Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed Of that strange sense its silence framed ; Such as a sudden passing-bell Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 3

IX. Sent by the state to guard the land, (Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, While Sobieski tamed his pride By Buda's wall and Danube's side, The chiefs of Venice wrung away From Patra to Eubæa's bay,) Minotti held in Corinth's towers The Doge's delegated powers, While yet the pitying eye of Peace Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece : And ere that faithless truce was broke Which freed her from the unchristian yoke. With him his gentle daughter came ; Nor there, since Menelaus' dame Forsook her lord and land, to prove What woes await on lawless love, Had fairer form adorn'd the shore Than she, the matchless stranger, bore.

X. The wall is rent, the ruins yawn; And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, O'er the disjointed mass shall vault The foremost of the fierce assault. The bands are rank'd; the chosen van of Tartar and of Mussulman,

XII. The tent of Alp was on the shore; The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; The watch was set, the night-round made, All mandates issued and obey'd : "T is but another anxious night, His pains the morrow may requite With all revenge and love can pay, In guerdon for their long delay. Few hours remain, and he hath need Of rest, to nerve for many a deed Of slaughter: but within his soul The thoughts like troubled waters roll.

"[" In midnight courtship to Italian maid.” – MS.] (" And make a melancholy moan,

To mortal voice and ear unknown." -MS.]

3 [“ Which rings a deep, internal knell,

A visionary passing bell." - MS.]

XIV. He felt his soul become more light Beneath the freshness of the night Cool was the silent sky, though calm, And bathed his brow with airy balm : Behind, the camp — before him lay, In many a winding creek and bay, Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow Of Delphi's bill, unshaken snow, High and eternal, such as shone Through thousand summers brightly gone, Along the gulf, the mount, the clime; It will not melt, like man, to time: Tyrant and slave are swept away, Less form'd to wear before the ray; But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, While tower and tree are torn and rent, Shines o'er its craggy battlement; In form a peak, in height a cloud, In texture like a hovering shruud, Thus high by parting Freedom spread, As from her fond abode she fled, And linger'd on the spot, where long Her prophet spirit spake in song. Oh! still her step at moments falters O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, And fain would wake, in souls too broken, By pointing to each glorious token: But vain her voice, till better days Dawn in those yet remember'd rays, Which shone upon the Persian fying, And saw the Spartan smile in dying.

He stood alone among the host;
Not his the loud fanatic boast
To plant the crescent o'er the cross,
Or risk a life with little loss,
Secure in paradise to be
By Houris loved immortally:
Nor his, what burning patriots feel,
The stern exaltedness of zeal,
Profuse of blood, untired in toil,
When battling on the parent soil.
He stood alone — a renegade
Against the country he betray'd;
He stood alone amidst his band,
Without a trusted heart or hand :
They follow'd him, for he was brave,
And great the spoil he got and gave;
They crouch'd to him, for he had skill
To warp and wield the vulgar will :
But still his Christian origin
With them was little less than sin.
They envied even the faithless farne
He earn'd beneath a Moslem name;
Since he, their mightiest chief, had been
In youth a bitter Nazarene.
They did not know how pride can stoop,
When baffled feelings withering droop;
They did not know how hate can burn
In hearts once changed from soft to stern;
Nor all the false and fatal zeal
The convert of revenge can feel.
He ruled them— man may rule the worst,
By ever daring to be first:
So lions o'er the jackal sway ;
The jackal points, he fells the prey, 1
Then on the vulgar yelling press,
To gorge the relics of success.

XIII.
His head grows fever'd, and his pulse
The quick successive throbs convulse ;
In vain from side to side he throws
His form, in courtship of repose ; ?
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start
Awoke him with a sunken heart.
The turban on his hot brow press'd,
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast,
Though oft and long beneath its weight
Upon bis eyes had slumber sate,
Without or couch or canopy,
Except a rougher field and sky
Than now might yieid a warrior's bed,
Than now along the heaven was spread.
He could not rest, he could not stay
Within his tent to wait for day,
But walk'd him forth along the sand,
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand.
What pillow'd them ? and why should he
More wakeful than the humblest be ?
Since more their peril, worse their toil,
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ;
While he alone, where thousands pass 'd
A night of sleep, perchance their last,
In sickly vigil wander'd on,
And envied all he gazed upon.
! (" As lions o'er the jackal sway

By springing dauntless on the prey;
They follow on, and yelling press
To gorge the fragments of success." - MS.)

XV. Not mindless of these mighty times Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; And through this night, as on he wander'd, And o'er the past and present ponder'd, And thought upon the glorious dead Who there in better cause had bled, He felt how faint and feebly dim The fame that could accrue to him, Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, A traitor in a turban'd horde ; And led them to the lawless siege, Whose best success were sacrilege. Not so had those his fancy number'd, The chiefs whose dust around him siurnber'd ; Their phalanx marshall’d on the plain, Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. They fell devoted, but undying; The very gale their names seem'd sighing: The waters murmur'd of their name ; The woods were peopled with their fame; The silent pillar, lone and grey, Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain, Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; The meanest rill, the mightiest river Rolld mingling with their fame for ever. Despite of every joke she bears, That land is glory's still and theirs ! 3 2 ( Ile vainly turn'd from side to side,

And each reposing posture tried" - MS.) 3 [Here follows, in MS.

Immortal - boundless — undecay'd -
Their souls the very soil pervade."]

1

XIX. IIe sate him down at a pillar's base, And pass'd his hand athwart his face; Like one in dreary musing mood, Declining was his attitude ; His head was drooping on his breast, Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd : And o'er his brow, so downward bent, Oft his beating fingers went, Hurriedly, as you may see Your own run over the ivory key, Ere the measured tone is taken By the chords you would awaken. There he sate all heavily, As he heard the night-wind sigh. Was it the wind through some hollow stone, Sent that soft and tender moan ? ? He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, But it was unrippled as glass may be ; He look'd on the long grass -it waved not a blade; How was that gentle sound convey'd ? He look'd to the banners - each flag lay still, So did the leaves on Cithæron's hill, And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; What did that sudden sound bespeak ? He turn'd to the lett – is he sure of sight? There sate a lady, youthful and bright!

And ere yet she made reply,
Once she raised her hand on high ;
It was so wan, and transparent of hue,
You might have seen the moon shine through.

XXI.
“ I come from my rest to him I love best,
That I may be happy, and he may be blesa'd.
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall;
Sought thee in safety through foes and all.
'T is said the lion will turn and flee
From a maid in the pride of her purity;
And the Power on high, that can shield the good
Thus from the tyrant of the wood,
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well
From the hands of the leaguering intidel.
I come — and if I come in vain,
Never, oh never, we meet again!
Thou hast done a fearful deed
In falling away from thy father's creed :
But dash that turban to earth, and sign
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine;
Wring the black drop from thy heart,
And to-morrow unites us no more to part."

XX.
He started up with more of fear
Than if an armed foe were near.
“ God of my fathers ! what is here?
Who art thou, and wherefore sent
So near a hostile armament ?

"
His trembling hands refused to sign
The cross he deem'd no more divine :
He had resumed it in that hour,
But conscience wrung away the power.
He gazed, he saw : he knew the face
Of beauty, and the form of grace;
It was Francesca by his side,
The maid who might have been his bride !
The rose was yet upon her cheek,
But mellow'd with a tenderer streak:
Where was the play of her soft lips Aed ?
Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red.
The ocean's calm within their view,
Beside her eye had less of blue;
But like that cold wave it stood still,
And its glance 3, though clear, was chill.
Around her form a thin robe twining,
Nought conceal'd ber bosom shining;
Through the parting of her hair,
Floating darkly downward there,
Her rounded arm show'd white and bare :

“ And where shoud our bridal couch be spread ?
In the midst of the dying and the dead ?
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name.
None, save thou and thine, I've sworn,
Shall be left upon the morn:
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, (forgot.
Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow
There thou yet shalt be my bride,
When once again I've quell'd the pride
Of Venice; and her hated race
Have felt the arm they would debase
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those
Whom vice and envy made my foes."
Upon his hand she laid her own
Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone,
And shot a chillness to his heart,
Which fix'd him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold;
But never did clasp of one so dear
Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers, long and white,
Froze through his blood by their touch that night.
The feverish glow of his brow was gone,
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,
As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue,
So deeply changed from what he knew :
Fair hut faint - without the ray
Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day;

[From this, all is beautiful to

He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there." GIPFORD.)

* I must here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, resemblance in these twelre lines to a passage in an unpub. lished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called “ Christabel." It was not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited; and the MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge hiinself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that he will not longer delay the publication of a production, of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the applause

of far more competent judges. - [The following are the lines in * Christabel" which Lord Byron had unintentionally imi. tated :

“ The night is chill, the forest bare,

Is it the wind that moneth bleak ?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek -
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red lear, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,

On the topmost twig that looks at the sky."] 3 [And its thrilling glance, &c. - GIPFORD.]

And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath,
And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,
And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dreamı;
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,
Stirt'd by the breath of the wintry air,'
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight; [down
As they seem, through the dimness, about to come
From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; ?
Fearfully fitting to and fro,
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.

“ If not for love of me be given
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,
Again I say — that turban tear
From off thy faithless brow, and swear
Thine injured country's sons to spare,
Or thou art lost; and never shalt see -
Not earth - that's past — but heaven or me.
If this thou dost accord, albeit
A heavy doom 't is thine to meet,
That doom shall half absolve thy sin,
And mercy's gate may receive thee within :
But pause one moment more, and take
The curse of Him thou didst forsake;
And look once more to heaven, and see
Its love for ever shut from thee.
There is a light cloud by the moon 3
'Tis passing, and will pass full soon —
If, by the time its vapoury sail
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,
Thy heart within thee is not changed,
Then God and man are both avenged;
Dark will thy doom be, darker still
Thine immortality of ill."
Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high
The sign she spake of in the sky;
But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside,
By deep interminable pride.
This first false passion of his breast
Rolla like a torrent o'er the rest.
He sue for mercy! He dismay'd
By wild words of a timid maid !
He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save
Her sons, devoted to the grave !
(Like a picture, that magic had charm'd from its frame,

Lifeless but life-like, and ever the same."- MS.) 3 [In the summer of 1803, when in his sixteenth year, Lord Byron, though offered a bed at Annesley, used at first to return every night to sleep at Newstead; alleging as a reason, that he was afraid of the family pictures of the Chaworths; that he fancied “they had taken a grudge to him on account of the duel." Mr. Moore thinks it may possibly have been the recollection of these pictures that suggested to him these lines.)

3 I have been told that the idea expressed in this and the fire following lines has been admired by those whose approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not original at least not mine ; it may be found much better expressed in pazes 182-3-4. of the English version of “ Vathek" (I forget the precise page of the French), a work to which I have before referred ; and never recur to, or read, without a reneral of gratification.-(The following is the passage :** Deludeu prince!' said the Genius, addressing the Caliph,

to whom Providence hath contided the care of innumerable subjects ; is it thus that thou fulfillest thy mission ? Thy crines are already complcted ; and art 'thou now hastening to thy punishment ? Thou knowest that bo

No-though that cloud were thunder's worst,
And charged to crush him - let it burst!
He look'd upon it earnestly
Without an accent of reply ;
He watch'd it passing; it is flown :
Full on his eye the clear moon shone,
And thus he spake “Whate'er my fate,
I am no changeling —'t is too late :
The reed in storms may bow and quiver,
Then rise again; the tree must shiver.
What Venice made me, I must be,
Her foe in all, save love to thee:

But thou art safe : oh, fly with me!"
He turn'd, but she is gone!
Nothing is there but the column stone.
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ?
He saw not -- he knew not — but nothing is there.

XXII.
The night is past, and shines the sun
As if that morn were a jocund one. 4
Lightly and brightly breaks away
The Morning from her mantle grey,
And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 5

Hark to the trump, and the drum,
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,
And the flap of the banners, that fit as they 're borne,
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,
And the clash, and the shout, “ They come ! they

come !" The horsetails 6 are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword

(word.
From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman,
Strike your tents, and throng to the van ;
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain,
That the fugitive may flee in vain,
When he breaks from the town; and none escape,
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ;
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass,
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass.

7
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane;
White is the foam of their champ on the bit :
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 8
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar;
Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare,
So is the blade of his scimitar;

yond those mountains Eblis and his accursed dives hold their infernal empire ; and, seduced by a malignant phan. tom, thou art proceeding to surrender thyseli to them! This moment is the last of grace allowed thee : give back Nouronahar to her father, who still retains a few sparks of life : destroy thy tower with all its abominations : drive Carathis from thy councils : be just to thy subjects: respect the ministers of the prophet : compensate for thy impieties by an exemplary life; and, instead of squandering thy days in voluptuous indulgence, lament thy crimes on the sepulchres of thy ancestors. Thou beholdest the clouds that obscure the sun : at the instant be recovers his splendour, if thy heart be not changed, the time of mercy assigned thee will be past

anged, for ever.'

* [Leave out this couplet. - Giffond.]

5 (Strike out -“ And the Noon will look on a sultry day.” - G.] 6 The horsetails, fixed upon a lance, a pacha's standard. i Omit" tvhile your fellows on foot, in a ficry mass,

Bloodstain the breach through which they pass." -G.) B (And crush the wall they have shaken before. - G.]