He cannot curb his haughty mood, Nor I forgive a father's blood.

XVI.

"Within thy father's house are foes; Not all who break his bread are true: To these should I my birth disclose,

His days, his very hours were few:
They only want a heart to lead,
A hand to point them to the deed.

But Haroun only knows, or knew

This tale, whose close is almost nigh:

He in Abdallah's palace grew,

And held that post in his Serai

Which holds he here he saw him die : But what could single slavery do? Avenge his lord? alas! too late; Or save his son from such a fate? He chose the last, and when elate

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd,
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate,
He led me helpless to his gate,

And not in vain it seems essay'd
To save the life for which he pray'd.
The knowledge of my birth secured

From all and each, but most from me; Thus Giaffir's safety was insured.

Removed he too from Roumelie To this our Asiatic side,

"All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds;

But harsher still my tale must be :
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds,
Yet I must prove all truth to thee.
I saw thee start this garb to see,

Yet is it one I oft have worn,

And long must wear: this Galiongée, To whom thy plighted vow is sworn,

Is leader of those pirate hordes,

Whose laws and lives are on their swords;

To hear whose desolating tale

Would make thy waning cheek more pale:
Those arms thou seest my band have brought,
The hands that wield are not remote;
This cup too for the rugged knaves

The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er.
'Tis vain-my tongue cannot impart
My almost drunkenness of heart,
When first this liberated eye
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky,
As if my spirit pierced them through,
And all their inmost wonders knew!
One word alone can paint to thee
That more than feeling-I was Free!
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine;
The World-nay, Heaven itself was mine!
XIX.

"The shallop of a trusty Moor

Convey'd me from this idle shore;
I long'd to see the isles that gem
Old Ocean's purple diadem:

I sought by turns, and saw them all; 1
But when and where I join'd the crew,
With whom I'm pledg'd to rise or fall,
When all that we design to do

Is done, 't will then be time more meet
To tell thee, when the tale's complete.
XX.

"'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 enterprise,

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 ev'n 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 2 patriots there Anticipated freedom share;

And oft around the cavern fire
On visionary schemes debate,

To snatch the Rayahs 3 from their fate.

scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still alive at Petersburg. He and Riga are the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists.

3 "Rayahs," -all who pay the capitation tax, called the "Haratch."

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 1 roam,
Or only know on land the Tartar's home! 2
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!
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark;
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark !9
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 away,
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 4
Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call;
Soft - as the melody of youthful days,

That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise;
Dear as his native song to Exile's ears,
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower
Blooming as Aden 5 in its earliest hour.

A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand,
Wait-wave-defend - destroy-at thy command!
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side,
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride.
The Haram's languid years of listless ease
Are well resign'd for cares- for joys like these:
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove,
Unnumber'd perils, but one only love!
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay,
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: 6
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!

This first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance.

2 The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself, cannot be denied. A young French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation approaching to rapture, which was indescribable.

3 [The longest, as well as most splendid, of those passages, with which the perusal of his own strains, during revision, inspired him, was that rich flow of eloquent feeling which follows the couplet, "Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark," &c.a strain of poetry, which, for energy and tenderness of thought, for music of versification, and selectness of diction, has, throughout the greater portion of it, but few rivals in either ancient or modern song.. MOORE.] 4 [Originally written thus

San airy ray."

"And tints to-morrow with a fancied The following note being annexed:-"Mr. Murray, choose which of the two epithets, fancied,' or 'airy,' may be best; or if neither will do, tell me, and I will dream another." a subsequent letter, he says: "Instead of — "And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray,

Print

"And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray;

In

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 ev'n 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 thee,
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!
Aylet 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,7
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 wreck !
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 ?

"And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray.

I wish you would ask Mr. Gifford which of them is best; cr rather, not worst."]

5" Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman paradise.

6" You wanted some reflections; and I send you, per Selim, eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not an ethical, tendency. One more revise-positively the last, if decently done-at any rate, the penultimate. Mr. Can. ning's approbation, I need not say, makes me proud.* To make you some amends for eternally pestering you with alterations, I send you Cobbett,-to confirm your orthodoxy." Lord B. to Mr. Murray.]

7 [" Then if my lip once murmurs, it must be."- MS.]

[Mr. Canning's note was as follows:-"I received the books, and among them, the Bride of Abydos.' It is very, very beautiful. Lord Byron (when I met him, one day, at a dinner at Mr. Ward's) was so kind as to promise to give me a copy of it. I mention this, not to save my purchase, but because I should be really flattered by the present."]

CANTO II.

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 recall thy willing vow, Appall'd by truths imparted now, Here rest I-not to see thee wed: But be that peril on my head!"

XXII.

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 brother!"

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 ?

XXIII.

Dauntless he stood-""Tis come-soon past-
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!
Farewell, Zuleika !-sweet! retire:

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 glance.
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!"

XXIV.

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 appearsnot 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.

XXV.

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel,
Or scarcely grazed its 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 choked the tone!

XXVI.

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 the 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 1

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, 2 That heart hath burst- that eye was closed. Yea- closed before his own!

XXVII.

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 3 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 all-
And that last thought on him thou couldst not save
Sufficed to kill;

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 - was thy first!

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

["While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron saw the body of a man who had been executed by being cast into the sea, floating on the stream to and fro with the trembling of the water, which gave to its arms the effect of scaring away several sea-fowl that were hovering to devour. This incident has been strikingly depicted."— GALT.]

A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only.

3 The death-song of the Turkish women, The "silent

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;
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,

slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public.

4 "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.

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 fixed pillar 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, '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! 3

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

"And airy tongues that syllable men's names."-MILTON. For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttelton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven (see Orford's Reminiscences), 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 to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letters.

2 [The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, is all purity and loveliness. Never was a faultless character more delicately or more justly delineated. Her piety, her intelligence, her strict sense of duty, and her undeviating love of truth, appear to have been originally blended in her mind, rather than inculcated by education. She is always natural, always attractive, always affectionate; and it must be admitted that her affections are not unworthily bestowed. Selim, while an orphan and dependant, is never degraded by calamity; when better hopes are presented to him, his buoyant spirit rises with his expectations: he is enterprising, with no more rashness than becomes his youth; and when disappointed in the success of a well-concerted project, he meets, with intrepidity, the fate to which he is exposed through his own generous forbearance. To us, "The Bride of Abydos" appears to be, in every respect, superior to "The Giaour," though, in point of diction, it has been, perhaps, less warmly admired. We will not argue this point, but will simply ob serve, that what is read with ease is generally read with rapidity; and that many beauties of style which escape observation in a simple and connected narrative, would be forced on the reader's attention by abrupt and perplexing transitions. It is only when a traveller is obliged to stop on his journey, that he is disposed to examine and admire the prospect.-GEORGE ELLIS.]

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 renewal, 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 5, the mag

3 ["The Bride,' such as it is, is my first entire composition of any length (except the Satire, and be d-d to it), for the Giaour' is but a string of passages, and Childe Harold' is, and I rather think always will be, unconcluded. It was published on Thursday, the 2d of December; but how it is liked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not, is no fault of the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be to the most important reader; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination; from selfish regrets to vivid recollections; and recalled me to a country replete with the brightest and darkest, but always most lively colours of my memory.". Byron Diary, Dec. 5. 1813.]

4 ["The Corsair " was begun on the 18th, and finished on the 31st, of December, 1813; a rapidity of composition which, taking into consideration the extraordinary beauty of the poem, is, perhaps, unparalleled in the literary history of the country. Lord Byron states it to have been written "con amore, and very much from existence." In the original MS. the chief female character was called Francesca, in whose person the author meant to delineate one of his acquaintance; but, while the work was at press, he changed the name to Medora.]

[This political allusion having been objected to by a friend, Lord Byron sent a second dedication to Mr. Moore, with a request that he would "take his choice." It ran as follows: