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"Tis true, they are a lawless brood,
But rough in form, nor mild in mood;
And every creed, and every race,
With them hath found—may find a place:
But open speech, and ready hand,
Obedience to their chief's command,
A soul for every enterprize,
That never sees with terror's eyes,
Friendship for each, and faith to all,
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall,
Have made them fitting instruments
For more than even my own intents.
And some and I have studied all
Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank,
But chiefly to my council call
The wisdom of the cautious Frank-
And some to higher thoughts aspire,
The last of Lambro's patriots there
Anticipated freedom share;

And oft around the cavern-fire
On visionary schemes debate,

To snatch the Rayahs from their fate.
So let them ease their hearts with prate
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ;
I have a love for freedom too.
Ay! let me like the Ocean-Patriarch roam,
Or only know on land the Tartar's home!
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea,
Are more than cities and Serais to me:
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail,
Across the desert, or before the gale,
Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide,
my prow!

But be the star that guides the wanderer,

Thou my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark! Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! The evening-beam that smiles the clouds

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Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray.

How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still!

Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown; To thee be Selim's tender as thine own; To soothe each sorrow,share in each delight, Blend every thought, do all—but disunite! Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; Friends to each other, foes to aught beside: Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd By fatal nature to man's warring kind: Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!

He makes a solitude, and calls it—peace! I like the rest must use my skill or strength, But ask no land beyond my sabre's length: Power sways but by division-her resource The blest alternative of fraud or force! Ours be the last; in time deceit may come When cities cage us in a social home: There even thy soul might err-how oft the heart

Corruption shakes which peril could not part!

And woman, more than man, when death

or woe

Or even Disgrace would lay her lover low,
Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame—
Away suspicion!—not Zuleika's name!
But life is hazard at the best; and here
No more remains to win, and much to fear:
Yes, fear!-the doubt, the dread of losing

By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale,

Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail : No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest,

Their steps still roving, but their hearts

at rest.

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms; Earth-sea alike—our world within our arms!

Ay-let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, So that those arms cling closer round my neck:

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee!
The war of elements no fears impart
To love, whose deadliest bane is human Art:
There lie the only rocks our course can check;
Here moments menace- there are years of

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape!

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. Few words remain of mine my tale to close; Of thine but one to waft us from our foes; Yea-foes-to me will Giaffir's hate decline? And is not Osman, who would part us, thine?

"His head and faith from doubt and death | Farewell, Zuleika !-Sweet! retire:
Return'd in time my guard to save;
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave
From isle to isle I roved the while:
And since, though parted from my band
Too seldom now I leave the land,
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do,
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too:
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 recal thy willing vow,
Appall'd by truths imparted now,
Here rest I-not to see thee wed:
But be that peril on my

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 glanco.
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!"

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

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?

Dauntless he stood-" Tis come-soon

One kiss, Zuleika- 'tis 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:
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!

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-wild-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!

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel,
Or scarcely grazed it's 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 choak'd the tone!

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 thee 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
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sigæum's steep
And cast on Lemnos' shore:

The sea-birds shriek above the prey,
O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then levell'd with the wave-

What recks it, though that corse shall lie
Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm;

The only heart, the only eye

Had bled or wept to see him die,

Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed,

And mourn'd above his turban-stone,

Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes
the light,

That winds around, and tears the quivering

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

By that same hand Abdallah -- Selim bled.
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief:
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's

She, whom thy sultan had but seen to

Thy Daughter's dead!
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's

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Within the place of thousand tombs
That shine beneath, while dark above

That heart hath burst-that eye was closed-The sad but living cypress glooms
Yea-closed before his own!

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail!
And woman's eye is wet-man's cheek is pale:
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race,
Thy destined lord is come too late;
He sees not- ne'er shall see thy face!
Can he not hear

The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear?
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate,
The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate,
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait,
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale,
Tell him thy tale!

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall!
That fearful moment when he left the cave
Thy heart grew chill:

He was thy hope- thy joy-thy love-thine

And that last thought on him thou couldst

Sufficed to kill;

not save

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


A single rose is shedding there
It's 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;
Nordroops, 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,

Burst forth in one wild cry—and all was still.
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin-grave!
Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst!
That grief- though deep-though fatal-But soft as harp that Houri strings
His long entrancing note!

was thy first!

Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge,


And, oh! that pang where more than Mad⚫ness lies!

The worm that will not sleep - and never dies;

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:
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-fix'd pillar to the shore ;
| For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Next morn 'twas 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!

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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 cloudy 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.

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 May I add a few words on a subject on Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her which all men are supposed to be fluent, patriots; while you stand alone the first of and none agreeable?-Self. I have written her bards in her estimation, and Britain much, and published more than enough to repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, demand a longer silence than I now mediwhose only regret, since our first acquaint- tate; but for some years to come it is my ance, has been the years he had lost before intention to tempt no further the award of it commenced, to add the humble but sin-|"Gods, men, nor columns." In the present cere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of composition I have attempted not the most more than one nation. It will at least prove | difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted to you, that I have neither forgotten the measure to our language, the good old and gratification derived from your society, nor now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza abandoned the prospect of its renewal, of Spenser is perhaps too slow and digniwhenever your leisure or inclination allows | fied for narrative; though I confess, it is you to atone to your friends for too long the measure most after my own heart. Scott an absence. It is said among those friends, alone, of the present generation, has hitherto 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

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

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

us from the rough and barren rock on which | These are our realms, no limits to their they are kindled. The heroic couplet is swaynot 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.

Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving


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

That thrills the wanderer of that trackless
That for itself can woo the approaching
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more
than zeal,

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 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 acquaint- | And where the feebler faint—can only feel— ance should think the author better than Feel-to the rising bosom's inmost core, the beings of his imagining; but I cannot Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- No dread of death-if with us die our foesment, at some odd critical exceptions in Save that it seems even duller than repose: the present instance, when I see several Come when it will-we snatch the life of bards (far more deserving, I allow), in lifevery 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,
his obedient servant,

January 2, 1814.


-nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria-

"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

Survey our empire and behold our home!

When lost-what recks it by disease or

Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away,
Heave his thick breath, and shake his pal-
sied head;

Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish

While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes


His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:

Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,

When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our

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

And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each
How had the brave who fell exulted now!"

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,

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