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The armaments which thunderstrike the
walls

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak-leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay-creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war:
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Tra-
falgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all
save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what
are they?

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers-they to me
Were a delight, and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do
here.

My task is done-my song hath ceased-
my theme

Has died into an echo; it is fit
The pell should break of this protracted
dream.

Thy waters wasted them while they were The torch shall be extinguish'd which

free,

hath lit

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey My midnight lamp—and what is writ, is
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
writ.-
Has dried up realms to deserts:-not so thou, Would it were worthier! but I am not now
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-That which I have been-and my visions flit
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, Less palpably before me-and the glow
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rol- Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering,
faint, and low.

lest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or
storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; - boundless, endless, and
sublime-

The image of eternity-the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fa-
thomless, alone.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath
been-
A sound which makes us linger;-yet-
farewell!

Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the

scene

Which is his last, if in your memories dwell
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ;
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain,
If such there were-with you, the moral of
his strain!

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TO

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF

ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS

CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIEND

SHIP; THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED BY HIS

OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT,

BYRON.

cnterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent ADVERTISEMENT. to the Russian invasion. The desertion of THE Tale which these disjointed fragments the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder present, is founded upon circumstances now of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that less common in the East than formerly; enterprise and to the desolation of the Morea, either because the ladies are more circum- | during which the cruelty exercised on all spect than in the "olden time;" or because sides was unparalleled even in the annals the Christians have better fortune, or less

of the faithful.

No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff,
High o'er the land he saved in vain:
When shall such hero live again?

Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the eastern wave;
And if at times a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odours there!
For there-the Rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale:
His queen, the garden-queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,

By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by nature given
In softest incense back to heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer-flower is there,
And many a shade that love might share,
And many a grotto, meant for rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow,
Till the gay mariner's guitar

Is heard, and seen the evening-star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.
Strange-that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for Gods, a dwelling-place,
And every charm and grace hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fix'd,
There man, enamour'd of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour,
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy-land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him-but to spare!
Strange that where all is peace beside
There passion riots in her pride,

And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,
And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And-but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these, and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd! Such is the aspect of this shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there, Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee? Approach, thou craven crouching slave: Say, is not this Thermopylae? These waters blue that round you lave, Oh servile offspring of the freePronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear

That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame :
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
The graves of those that cannot die!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye
Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the muse might soar,
High as thine own in days of yore,
When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime,

Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave,
And callous, save to crime;
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast.
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;
In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renown'd.
In vain might Liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke,
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:
No more her sorrows I bewail,
Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote; And fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near but doubtful creek : Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Port Leone's safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night.

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?
Beneath the clattering iron's sound
The cavern'd echoes wake around

In lash for lash, and bound for bound;
The foam that streaks the courser's side
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide :
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There's none within his rider's breast;
And though to-morrow's tempest lower,
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace
What time shall strengthen, not efface:
Though young and pale, that sallow front
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt;
Though bent on earth thine evil eye,
As meteor-like thou glidest by,
Right well I view and deem thee one
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

On-
-on he hasten'd, and he drew
My gaze of wonder as he flew :
Though like a demon of the night
He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight,
His aspect and his air impress'd
A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;
He winds around; he hurries by;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee,
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along; but ere he pass'd
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last,
A moment check'd his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood—
Why looks he o'er the olive-wood?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering

still:

Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike,
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun;
To-night, the Bairam-feast's begun;
To-night-but who and what art thou
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou should'st either pause or flee?
He stood some dread was on his face,
Soon Hatred settled in its place:
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient Anger's darkening blush,
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed;
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,

| As doubting to return or fly:
Impatient of his flight delay'd,
Here loud his raven charger neigh'd-
Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his
blade;

That sound had burst his waking dream,
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;
Away, away, for life he rides :
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed
| Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more;
The crag is won, no more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd;
'Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued;
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years:
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in Time's record nearly nought,
It was Eternity to Thought!
For infinite as boundless space
The thought that Conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend
Woe without name, or hope, or end.

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone;
And did he fly or fall alone?
Woe to that hour he came or went!
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent
To turn a palace to a tomb :
He came, he went, like the Simoom,
That harbinger of fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath
The very cypress droops to death-
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is
fled,

The only constant mourner o'er the dead!

The steed is vanish'd from the stall;
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;
The lonely Spider's thin grey pall
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall;
The Bat builds in his Haram-bower;
And in the fortress of his power
The Owl usurps the beacon-tower ;
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,
With baffled thirst, and famine, grim;
For the stream has shrunk from its marble
bed,
Where the weeds and the desolate dust
are spread.
'Twas sweet of yore to see it play
And chase the sultriness of day,

As springing high the silver-dew
In whirls fantastically flew,

And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o'er the ground.
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were
bright,

To view the waves of watery light,
And hear its melody by night.
And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd
Around the verge of that cascade ;
And oft upon his mother's breast
That sound had harmonized his rest;
And oft had Hassan's Youth along
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song;
And softer seem'd each melting tone
Of Music mingled with its own.
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose
Along the brink at Twilight's close:
The stream that fill'd that font is fled-
The blood that warm'd his heart is shed!
And here no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice.
The last sad note that swell'd the gale
Was woman's wildest funeral wail:
That quenched in silence, all is still,
But the lattice that flaps when the wind

is shrill:

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,
No hand shall close its clasp again.
On desert sands 'twere joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow-man :
So here the very voice of Grief
Might wake an Echo like relief-
At least 'twould say, "all are not gone;
There lingers Life, though but in one-
For many a gilded chamber's there,
Which Solitude might well forbear;
Within that dome as yet Decay
Hath slowly work'd her cankering way—
But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate,
Nor there the Fakir's self will wait,
Nor there will wandering Dervise stay,
For Bounty cheers not his delay;
Nor there will weary stranger halt
To bless the sacred "bread and salt."
Alike must Wealth and Poverty
Pass heedless and unheeded by,
For Courtesy and Pity died
With Hassan on the mountain-side.
His roof, that refuge unto men,
Is desolation's hungry den.

The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre!

I hear the sound of coming feet, But not a voice mine ear to greet; More near--each turban I can scan, And silver-sheathed ataghan ; The foremost of the band is seen, An Emir by his garb of green : Ho! who art thou?-this low salam Replies of Moslem faith I am.

The burthen ye so gently bear,
Seems one that claims your utmost care,
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight,
My humble bark would gladly wait.”

"Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, And waft us from the silent shore; Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply The nearest oar that's scatter'd by, And midway to those rocks where sleep The channel'd waters dark and deep. Rest from your task-so-bravely done, Our course has been right swiftly run; Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, That one of

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, The calm wave rippled to the bank; I watch'd it as it sank, methought Some motion from the current caught Bestirred it more,-'twas but the beam That chequered o'er the living stream: I gazed, till vanishing from view, Like lessening pebble it withdrew; Still less and less, a speck of white That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; And all its hidden secrets sleep, Known but to Genii of the deep, Which, trembling in their coral caves, They dare not whisper to the waves.

As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen of eastern spring,
O'er emerald-meadows of Kashineer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye:
So Beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild;
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betray'd,
Woe waits the insect and the maid;
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play, and man's caprice:
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught.
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away,
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.

With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah! where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar
From rose to tulip as before?
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower?
No: gayer insects fluttering by
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,

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