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.
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief:
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Ösman's bed,
She, whom thy Sultan had but seen to wed,
Thy Daughter's dead!

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quench'd its ray ?-the blood that thou hast shed!

Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: "Where is my child?"-an Echo answers"Where?

XXVIII.

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 stamped 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 vainTo-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,

"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.

+"And airy tongues that syllable men's names."-MILTON. For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of

And buds unshelter'd by a bower;
Nor droops, though Spring refuse her 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,
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:
"T is 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 fix'd pillow 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, 't is said,
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:
And hence extended by the billow,
"T is 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!

birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttelton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kindal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven (see Orford's Remi niscences), and many other instances, bring this superstition 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 te her harmless folly. 71

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 reward, 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, 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. 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 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

72

heart: Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octosyllabic 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 unfavorable; 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 can. not 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 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.

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,

"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 enamor❜d of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away:
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,
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;
Repair 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

*The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole of the Ægean isles are within a few

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 nourish'd 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.
How gloriously her gallant course she goes!—
Her white wings flying-never from her foes-
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Who would not brave the battle-fire-the wreck-
To move the monarch of her peopled deck?

IV.

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings;
The sails are furl'd; and anchoring round she
swings;

And gathering loiterers on the land discern
Her boat descending from the latticed stern.
'Tis manned-the oars keep concert to the strand,
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.
Hail to the welcome shout!-the friendly speech!
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;
The smile, the question, and the quick reply,
And the heart's promise of festivity.

V.

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd;
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud,
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard-
Friends'-husbands'-lovers' names in each dear

word:

"Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success-
But shall we see them? will their accents bless?
From where the battle roars-the billows chafe-
They doubtless boldly did-but who are safe?
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise,
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!"

VI.

"Where is our chief? for him we bear reportAnd doubt that joy-which hails our comingshort;

Yet thus sincere-'t is cheering, though so brief; But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief:

hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.

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?
""T is he 't 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:
They watch his glance with many a stealing look,
To gather how that eye the tidings took;
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside,
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride,
He read the scroll-" My tablets, Juan, hark-
Where is Gonsalvo?"

"In the anchor'd bark." "There let him stay-to him this order bearBack to your duty-for my course prepare: Myself this enterprise to-night will share.” To-night, Lord Conrad ??

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Ay! at set of sun: The breeze will freshen when the day is done. My corselet, cloak-one hour and we are gone. Sling on thy bugle-see that free from rust My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust; Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, And give its guard more room to fit my hand. This let the armorer with speed dispose; Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes: Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired."

VIII.

They make obeisance, and retire in haste,
Too soon to seek again the watery waste:
Yet they repine not-so that Conrad guides;
And who dare question aught that he decides ?
That man of loneliness and mystery,
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;
Whose name appalls the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain?
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?
The power of Thought-the magic of the Mind!
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill,
That moulds another's weakness to its will;
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.
Such hath it been-shall be-beneath the sun
The many still must labor for the one!

"T is Nature's doom-but let the wretch who toils Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils.

Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, How light the balance of his humbler pains!

IX.

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face,
In Conrad's form seems little to admire,
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire:
Robust but not Herculean-to the sight
No giant frame sets forth his common height;
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men;
They gaze and marvel how-and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.
Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale
The sable curls in wild profusion veil;
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien,

Still seems there something he would not have seen:
His features' deepening lines and varying hue
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view,
As if within that murkiness of mind
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined;
Such might it be-that none could truly tell-
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell.
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy
The full encounter of his searching eye:

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,
At once the observer's purpose to espy,
And on himself roll back his scrutiny,
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray

Some secret thought, than drag that chief 's to-day.
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled-and Mercy sigh'd farewell!

X.

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,
Within-within-'t was there the spirit wrought!
Love shows all changes-Hate, Ambition, Guile,
Betray no further than the bitter smile;
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,
He, who would see, must be himself unseen.
Then-with the hurried tread, the upward eye,
The clenched hand, the pause of agony,
That listens, starting, lest the step too near
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear:
Then-with each feature working from the heart,
With feelings loosed to strengthen-not depart :
That rise-convulse-contend-that freeze or glow,
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow;
Then-Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not,
Behold his soul-the rest that soothes his lot!
Mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears
The scathing thought of execrated years!
Behold-but who hath seen, or e'er shall see,
Man as himself-the secret spirit free?

XI.

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent
To lead the guilty-guilt's worst instrument-
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven.
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school,
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe,
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,
And not the traitors who betray'd him still;
Nor deem'd that gifts bestowed on better men
Had left him joy, and means to give again.