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If ever evil angel bore
But brighter traits with evil mix'd;
Will scarce delay the passer-by;
Demands and daunts the stranger's eye;
To love the softest hearts are prone, But such can ne'er be all his own; Too timid in his woes to share, Too meek to meet, or brave despáir; And sterner hearts alone may feel The wound that time can never heal. The rugged metal of the mine Must burn before its surface shine, But, plunged within the furnace flame, It bends and melts—though still the same ; (1) Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 'T will serve thee to defend or kill; A breast-plate for thine hour of need, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; But if a dagger's form it bear, Let those who shape its edge beware! Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, Can turn and tame the sterner heart; From these its form and tone are ta’en, And what they make it must remain, But break-before it bend again.
“His floating robe around him folding,
Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle; With dread beheld, with gloom beholding
The rites that sanctify the pile.
If solitude succeed to grief,
Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream
To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, Should rend her rash devoted breast, And find them flown her empty nest. The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemploy'd.
(1) Seeing himself accused of having, in this passage, too close- any one's who likes it. The Giaour is certainly a bad character, ly imitated Crabbe, Lord Byron wrote to a friend—“I have read but not dangerous; and I think bis fale and his feelings will the British Review, and really think the writer in most points very meet with few proselytes."-E. right. The only mortifying thing is, the accusation of imitation. (2) The pelican is, I believe, the bird se libelled, by the impuCrabbe's passage I never saw; and Scott i no further meant to lation of feeding her chickens with her blood. follow than in his lyric measure, which is Gray's, Milton's, and
“Father! thy days havepass'd in peace,
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer: To bid the sins of others cease,
Thyself without a crime or care, Save transient ills that all must bear, Has been thy lot from youth to age; And thou wilt bless thee from the rage Of passions fierce and uncontrollid, Such as thy penitents unfold, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest Within thy pure and pitying breast. My days, though few, have pass'd below In much of joy, but more of woe; Yet still in hours of love or strife, I've 'scaped the weariness of life: Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, I loathed the languor of repose. Now nothing left to love or hate, No more with hope or pride elate, I'd rather be the thing that crawls Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, Than pass my dull unvarying days, Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest-but not to feel 't is rest. Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;
And I shall sleep without the dream
Dark as to thee my deeds may seem.
The maid I love, the man I hate;
But these are words that all can use-
A stain its steel can never lose: 'T was shed for her, who died for me,
It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd: Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee,
Nor 'midst my sins such act record;
"She died-1 dare not tell thee how;
His doom was seal'd-he knew it well,
As filed the troop to where they fell!
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,
“Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven;(3)
A spark of that immortal fire
To lift from earth our low desire.
(1) This superstition of a second hearing (for I never met with and marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that, with downright second-sight in the East) fell once under my own ob- other circumstances, we could not doubt of his having been in servation. On my third journey to Cape Colonna, early in 1811, "villanous company,” and ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. as we passed through the defile that leads from the hamlel between Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearKeralia and Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rathering more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refreshout of the path, and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain. ment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native mountains.--I shall I rode up and inquired. “We are in peril," he answered. “What mention one trait more of this singular race. In March, 1811, peril? we are not now in Albania, nor in the passes to Ephesus, a remarkably stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the fiftieth Messalunghi, or Lepanto; there are plenty of us, well armed, on the same errand) to offer bimself as an attendant, which was and the Choriates have not courage to be thieves.”—“True, Af- declined: “Well, Affendi," quoth be, “may you live !-you would fendi, but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears.”—“The have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the bills to shot ! not a tophaike has been fired this morning.”—“I hear it morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive notwithstanding-bom-bom-as plainly as I hear your voice.”- me.”—Dervish, who was present, remarked, as a thing of course “Psha!"-"As you please, Affendi; if it is written, so will it be." | and of no consequence, “In the mean time be will join the
- I left this quick-eared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, bis Klephtes” (robbers), which was true to the letter. If not cut Christian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by off, they come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived ai Colonna, lown, where they are often as well known as their exploits. remained some hours, and returned leisurely, saying a variety (2) "These, in our opinion, are the most beautiful passages of of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled the building of the poem; and some of them of a beauty which it would not be Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Ila- easy lo eclipse by many citations in the language." Jeffrey. lian, and English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon (3) The hundred and twenty-six lines which follow, down 10 the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contemplating the "Tell me no more of fancy's gleam,” first appeared in the fifth beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the columns. 1 edition. In returning the proof, Lord Byron says:-"I have, but thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if with some difficulty, not added any more to this snake of a poem, he bad become a "Palaocastro" man? "No,” said he, “but which has been lengthening its rattles every month. It is now these pillars will be useful in making a stand ;” and added other rearsully long, being more than a canto and a half of Childe Haremarks, which at least evinced his own belief in his troublesome rold. The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not often he does; and faculty of forehearing. On our return to Athens, we heard from when he don't, be tells me with great energy, and I fret, and aller. Leone (a prisoner set ashore some days after) or the intended at- I bave thrown them in 10 soften the ferocity of our infidel; and, lack of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not laking for a dying man, have given him a good deal to say for himself. place, in the notes to Childe llarold, Canto 2d. I was at some Do you know any body who cao slop-I mean, point-commas, pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and so fortb? for I am, I hear, a sad hand at your punclualion."
A feeling from the Godhead caught,
This present joy, this future hope,
No more with sorrow meekly cope;
That seem to add but guilt to woe?
Hath nought to dread from outward blow:
To thee, old man, my deeds appear:
And this too was 1 born to bear!
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
But not the breath of human life:
And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face, Where every hue that charm'd before The blackness of my bosom wore. The rest thou dost already know, And all my sins, and half my woe. But talk no more of penitence; Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence: And if thy holy tale were true, The deed that 's done canst thou undo? Think me not thankless—but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.(1) My soul's estate in secret guess : But wouldst thou pity more, say less. When thou canst bid my Leila live, Then will I sue thee to forgive; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased masses proffer grace. Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung From forest-cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness : But soothe not-mock not my distress!
" In earlier days, and calmer hours,
When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers,
I had ah! have I now ?-a friend!
Memorial of a youthful vow;
Though souls absorb'd like mine allow
Which taught them with all ill to cope, In madness, then, their fate accuseIn madness do these fearful deeds
Among the Giaour MSS. is the first draught of this petere, wbich we subjoin:« Yes
doth spring Love indeed descend
from heaven; If
immortal A spark of that eternal
To lift from earth our low desire.
to add but guilt to That seem
woe. but to augment their
breast Alas ! the
that inly bleeds;
heart Has nought to dread from outward foe," etc. •E. (1) The monk's sermon is omilled. It seems to have had so lillle effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruplions and uneasiness of the patient), and was delivered in the usual tone of all orthodox preachers.
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim,
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 'T is strange-he prophesied my doom,
And I have smiled-I then could smile When Prudence would his voice assume,
And warn-I reck'd not what-the while: But now remembrance whispers o'er Those accents scarcely mark'd before. Say—that his bodings came to pass,
And he will start to hear their truth,
And wish his words had not been sooth: Tell him, unheeding as I was,
Through many a busy bitter scene
Of all our golden youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried To bless his memory ere I died; But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name; And what have I to do with fame ? I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn; And what than friendship's manly tear May better grace a brother's bier ? But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him—what thou dost behold! The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The wreck by passion left behind; A shrivell’d scroll, a scatter'd leaf, Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief!
And I, before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear. I wander, father! for my soul Is fleeting towards the final goal. I saw her, friar! and I rose Forgetful of our former woes; And, rushing from my couch, I dart, And clasp her to my desperate heart; I clasp—what is it that I clasp? No breathing form within my grasp, No heart that beats reply to mine, Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine! And art thou, dearest, changed so much, As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, I care not; so my arms enfold The all they ever wish'd to hold. Alas! around a shadow prest They shrink upon my lonely breast; Yet still 't is there! In silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands! With braided hair, and bright-black eyeI knew 't was falsesbe could not die! But he is dead! within the dell I saw him buried where he fell; He comes not, for he cannot break From earth; why then art thou awake ? They told me wild waves rollid above The face I view, the form I love; They told me- —'t was a hideous tale! I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: If true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou comest to claim a calmer grave, Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er This brow, that then will burn no more; Or place them on my hopeless heart : But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art, In mercy ne'er again depart! Or farther with thee bear my soul Than winds can waft or waters roll!
“Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, No, father, no, 't was not a dream; Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep; But could not, for my burning brow Throbb’d to the very brain as now: I wish'd but for a single tear, As something welcome, new, and dear: I wish’d it then, I wish it still; Despair is stronger than my will. Waste not thine orison, despair Is mightier than thy pious prayer: I would not, if I might, be blest; I want no paradise, but rest. 'T was then, I tell thee, father! then I saw her; yes, she lived again; And shining in her white symar,(1) As through yon pale grey cloud the star Which now I gaze on as on her, Who look'd and looks far lovelier; Dimly I view its trembling spark; To-morrow's night shall be more dark;
(1) “Symar," a shroud.
he asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of (2) The circumstance to which the above story relates was not the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchlar fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night! Pacha complained to his father of his son's supposed infidelity; | One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one