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If ever evil angel bore
The form of mortal, such he wore:
By all my hope of sins forgiven,
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!"

But brighter traits with evil mix'd;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded :
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy
A noble soul, and lineage high:
Alas! though both bestow'd in vain,
Which Grief could change, and Guilt could

stain,
It was no vulgar tenement
To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted.
The roofless cot, decay'd and rent,

Will scarce delay the passer-by;
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye;
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone !

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.

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“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.
But when the anthem shakes the choir,
And kneel the monks, his steps retire;
By yonder lone and wavering torch
His aspect glares within the porch;
There will he pause till all is done
And hear the prayer, but ulter none.
See-by the half-illumined wall
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall,
That pale brow wildly wreathing round,
As if the Gorgon there had bound
The sablest of the serpent braid
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd:
For he declines the convent-oath,
And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth,
But wears our garb in all beside;
And, not from piety but pride,
Gives wealth to walls that never heard
Of his one holy vow nor word.
Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony
Peals louder praises to the sky,
That livid cheek, that stony air
Of mix'd defiance and despair!
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine!
Else may we dread the wrath divine
Made manifest by awful sign.

If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pany that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share:
Even bliss—'t were woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
Aud shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotling sleep,
Witbout the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay!
It is as if the desert-bird, (2)

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

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“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
Of what I was, and would be still,

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem.
My memory now is but the tomb
Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom
Though better to have died with those
Than bear a life of lingering woes.
My spirit shrunk not to sustain
The searching throes of ceaseless pain;
Nor sought the self-accorded grave
Of ancient fool and modern knave;
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet;
And in the field it had been sweet,
Had danger wou'd me on to move
The slave of glory, not of love.
I've braved it-not for honour's boast;
I smile at laurels won or lost;
To such let others carve their way,
For high renown, or hireling pay:
But place again before my eyes
Aught that I deem a worthy prize,

The maid I love, the man I hate;
And I will hunt the steps of fate,
To save or slay, as these require,
Through rending steel, and rolling fire:
Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one
Who would but do—what he hath done.
Death is but what the haughty brave,
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;
Then let life go to him who gave:
I have not quaild to danger's brow
When high and happy-need I now ?
I loved her, friar! nay, adored-

But these are words that all can use-
I proved it more in deed than word;
There 's blood upon that dinted sword,

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;
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,
For he was hostile to thy creed !
The very name of Nazarene
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.
Ungrateful fool! since but for brands
Well wielded in some hardy hands,
And wounds by Galileans given,
The surest pass to Turkish heaven,
For him his houris still might wait
Impatient at the Prophet's gate.
I loved her-love will find its way
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey:
And if it dares enough, 't were hard
If passion met not some reward-
No matter how, or where, or why,
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain
I wish she had not loved again.

"She died-1 dare not tell thee how;
But look—'t is written on my brow!
There read of Cain the curse and crime,
In characters unworn by time :
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause;
Not mine the act, though I the cause.
Yet did he but what I had done
Had she been false to more than one.
Faithless to him, he gave the blow;
But true to me, I laid him low:
Howe'er deserved her doom might be,
Her treachery was truth to me;
To me she gave her heart, that all
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall;
And I, alas! too late to save!
Yet all I then could give, I gave,
'T was some relief, our foe a grave.
His death sils lightly; but her fate
Has made me—what thou well mayst hate.

Г

His doom was seal'd-he knew it well,
Warn’d by the voice of stern Taheer,
Deep in whose darkly boding ear (1)
The death-shot peal'd of murder near,

As filed the troop to where they fell!
He died too in the battle broil,
A time that heeds nor pain, nor toil;
One cry to Mahomet for aid,
One prayer to Alla all he made :
He knew and cross'd me in the fray-
I gazed upon him where he lay,
And watch'd his spirit ebb away :
Though pierced like pard by hunter's steel,
He felt not half that now I feel.
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find
The workings of a wounded mind;
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse.
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace
Despair upon his dying face!
The late repentance of that hour,
When Penitence hath lost her power
To tear one terror from the grave,
And will not soothe, and cannot save.

Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,
If bursting heart, and maddening brain,
And daring deed, and vengeful steel,
And all that I have felt, and feel,
Betoken love-that love was mine,
And shown by many a bitter sign.
'T is true, I could not whine nor sigh,
I knew but to obtain or die.
I die—but first I have possessid,
And, come what may, I have been blest.
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?
No-reft of all, yet undismay'd
But for the thought of Leila slain,
Give me the pleasure with the pain,
So would I live and love again.
I grieve, but not, my holy guide!
For him who dies, but her who died :
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave-
Ah! had she but an earthly grave,
This breaking heart and throbbing head
Should seek and share her narrow bed.
She was a form of life and light, (2)
That, seen, became a part of sight;
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye,
The morning-star of Memory!

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“Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven;(3)

A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shared, by Alla given,

To lift from earth our low desire.
Devotion wafts the mind above,
But Heaven itself descends in love;

(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,
To wean from self each sordid thought;
A ray of Him who form’d the whole;
A glory circling round the soul!
I grant my love imperfect, all
That mortals by the name miscall;
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;
But say, oh say, here was not guilt!
She was my life's unerring light:
That quench'd, what beam shall break my night?
Oh! would it shone to lead me still,
Although to death or deadliest ill,
Why marvel ye, if they who lose

This present joy, this future hope,

No more with sorrow meekly cope;
In frenzy then their fate accuse:
In madness do those fearful deeds

That seem to add but guilt to woe?
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

Hath nought to dread from outward blow:
Who falls from all he knows of bliss,
Cares litlle into what abyss.
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now

To thee, old man, my deeds appear:
I read abhorrence on thy brow,

And this too was 1 born to bear!
'T is true, that, like that bird of prey,
With havock have I mark'd my way:
But this was taught me by the dove,
To die-and know no second love.
This lesson yet hath man to learn,
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:
The bird that sings within the brake,
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.
And let the fool, still prone to range
And sneer on all who cannot change,
Partake his jest with boasting boys;
I envy not his varied joys,
Bul deem such feeble heartless man
Less than yon solitary swan;
Far far beneath the shallow maid
He left believing and betray'd.
Such shame at least was never mine-
Leila! each thought was only thine!

My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
My hope on high-my all below.
Earth holds no other like to thee,
Or, if it doth, in vain for me:
For worlds I dare not view the dame
Resembling thee, yet not the same.
The very crimes that mar my youth,
This bed of death-attest my truth!
'T is all too late-thou wert, thou art
The cherish'd madness of my heart !
"And she was lost-and yet I breathed,

But not the breath of human life:
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,

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!
To him this pledge I charge thee send,

Memorial of a youthful vow;
I would remind him of my end :

Though souls absorb'd like mine allow

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Which taught them with all ill to cope, In madness, then, their fate accuseIn madness do these fearful deeds

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fire,

Among the Giaour MSS. is the first draught of this petere, wbich we subjoin:« Yes

doth spring Love indeed descend

from heaven; If

be born

immortal A spark of that eternal

celestial
To buman bearts in mercy given

To lift from earth our low desire.
A feeling from tbe Godhead caught,

each
To wean from self

sordid thought;
Devotion sends the soul above,
But Heaven itself descends to love.
Yet marvel not, if tbey who love
This present joy, this future bupe,

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to add but guilt to That seem

woe. but to augment their

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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.

our

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!

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“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;

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(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

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