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I form the plan, decree the spoil, 'Tis fit I oftener share the toil.

But now too long I've held thine ear;

Time presses, floats my bark, and here

We leave behind but hate and fear.
To-morrow Osman with his train
Arrives-to-night must break thy chain :
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey,-
Perchance, his life who gave thee thine,-
With me this hour away-away!

But yet, though thou art plighted mine,
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow,
Appall'd by truths imparted now,
Here rest I-not to see thee wed:

But be that peril on my head!”

XXII.

Zuleika, mute and motionless,
Stood like that statue of distress,
When, her last hope for ever gone,
The mother harden'd into stone:
All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niobé.

But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Essay'd to speak, or look reply,
Beneath the garden's wicket porch
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch!
Another-and another—and another-

"Oh! fly-no more-yet now my more than brother!"

Far, wide, through every thicket spread
The fearful lights are gleaming red;
Nor these alone-for each right hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand.
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau, shining steel;
And last of all, his sabre waving,
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:
And now almost they touch the cave-
Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave?

XXIII.

Dauntless he stood-" "T is come-soon pastOne kiss, Zuleika-'t is my last :

But yet my band not far from shore May hear this signal, see the flash;

Yet now too few- -the attempt were rash :

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No matter-yet one effort more.' Forth to the cavern mouth he stept;

His pistol's echo rang on high, Zuleika started not, nor wept,

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye! "They hear me not, or if they ply Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ;

That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh.
Then forth my father's scimitar,
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war!
Farewell, Zuleika!-sweet! retire:
Yet stay within-here linger safe,
"At thee his rage will only chafe.
Stir not-lest even to thee perchance
Some erring blade or ball should glance.
Fear'st thou for him?-may I expire
If in this strife I seek thy sire!
No-though by him that poison pour'd;
No-though again he call me coward !
But tamely shall I meet their steel?
No-as each crest save his may feel!"

XXIV.

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand:
Already at his feet hath sunk
The foremost of the prying band,

A gasping head, a quivering trunk:
Another falls but round him close
A swarming circle of his foes;
From right to left his path he cleft,

And almost met the meeting wave:
His boat appears-not five oars' length
His comrades strain with desperate strength-
Oh! are they yet in time to save ?
His feet the foremost breakers lave;
His band are plunging in the bay,
Their sabres glitter through the spray;
Wet-
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.

wild

XXV.

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 Giaffir fall!"
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang?
Whose bullet through the night-air sang,
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 :

Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling
If aught his lips essay'd to groan,
The rushing billows choked the tone!

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 !

'Tis 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,

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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!
The worm that will not sleep- and never dies;
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light,
That winds around, and tears the quivering heart!
Ah! wherefore not consume it and depart!
Woe to thee, rash 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.

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 to and fro with the trembling of the water, which gave to its arms the effect of scaring away several sea-fowl that were hovering to devour. This incident has been strikingly depicted.” — GALT.]

A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only. 3 The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent

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Within the place of thousand tombs
That shine beneath, while dark above
The sad but living cypress glooms

And withers not, though branch and leaf
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,
Like early unrequited Love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Ev'n in that deadly 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 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 ber shower,
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 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,
'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.

And some have been who could believe,
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,

slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public.

4" 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.

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 placed the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep fixed pillar to the shore;

For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell;
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave:

And there by night, reclined, 'tis said,

Is seen a ghastly turban'd head: And hence extended by the billow, "Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!" Where first it lay that mourning flower Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;

As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale! 3

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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

1" And airy tongues that syllable men's names."-MILTON. For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttelton'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 superstition bearer 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.

[The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, is all parity and loveliness. Never was a faultless character more delicately or more justly delineated. Her piety, her intelli gence, 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 ob serve, that what is read with ease is generally read with rapi. dity; 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 traveller is obliged to stop on his journey, that he is disposed to examine and admire the prospect.-GEORGE ELLIS]

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 your own country 5, the mag

3

["The Bride,' such as it is, is my first entire composition 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. It 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. But I am much more indebted to the tale than I 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."Byron Diary, Dec. 5. 1813.]

4["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 original 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.]

5 [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:

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nificent 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. Your 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 ineasure 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, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the 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 soif 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

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

"Yours, most affectionately and faithfully,
"BYRON."]

[After the words "Scott alone," Lord Byron had inserted, in a parenthesis-" He will excuse the ' Mr.'- we do not say Mr. Cæsar."]

2 [It is difficult to say whether we are to receive this

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"O'ER 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!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway—
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot please
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
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 enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away:

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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.] 3 The time in this poem may seem too short for the occur rences, but the whole of the Egean 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.

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Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound. -escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loath'd 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,

1 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 : Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,

They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand:
Select the arms-to each his blade assign,

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;
Bepair the boat, replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the shore;
For the wild bird the busy springes set,

¦ Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net;
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil,
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil:
No matter where—their chief's allotment this;
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss.
But who that CHIEF? his name on every shore
Is famed and fear'd-they ask and know no more.
With these he mingles not but to command;
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,
But they forgive his silence for success.
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill,
That goblet passes him untasted still-
And for his fare-the rudest of his crew
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too;
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots,
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits,
His short repast in humbleness supply
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny.
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,
His mind seems nourished by that abstinence.

Steer to that shore!"- they sail. "Do this!" - 't is done :

"Now form and follow me !"-the spoil is won.
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,
And all obey and few inquire his will;
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.

III.

“A sail !—a sail !"—a promised prize to Hope!
Her nation-flag-how speaks the telescope?
No prize, alas !—but yet a welcome sail :
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.
Yes-she is ours-a home-returning bark—
Blow fair, thou breeze!-she anchors ere the dark.
Already doubled is the cape-our bay

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.

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"Where is our chief? for him we bear report-
And doubt that joy-which hails our coming-short;
Yet thus sincere-'t is cheering, though so brief;
But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief:
Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return,
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn."
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way,
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay,
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming,
And freshness breathing from each silver spring,
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst,
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst;
From crag to cliff they mount-)
- Near yonder cave,
What lonely straggler looks along the wave ?
In pensive posture leaning on the brand,
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?
""Tis het is Conrad-here-as wont- alone;
On-Juan!-on-and make our purpose known.
The bark he views-and tell him we would greet
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet:
We dare not yet approach-thou know'st his mood,
When strange or uninvited steps intrude."

VII.

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent; -
He spake not-but a sign express'd assent.
These Juan calls-they come-to their salute
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute.
"These letters, Chief, are from the Greek—the spy,
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report
Much that"-"Peace, peace!"- he cuts their
prating short.

Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech:

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