THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS: A TURKISH TALE. "Had we never loved so kindly, Had we never loved so blindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted."-BURNS. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, SINCERE FRIEND, BYRON. CANTO THE FIRST. I. KNOW Ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute, Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? + Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. "Gúl," the rose.-B. "Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, With whom Revenge is Virtue."-YOUNG's Revenge.-B. II. Begirt with many a gallant slave, Deep thought was in his aged eye; His pensive cheek and pondering brow III. "Let the chamber be clear'd."-The train disappear'd— And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. First lowly rendering reverence meet; "Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide Know-for the fault, if fault there be, Was mine; then fall thy frowns on me So lovelily the morning shone, That let the old and weary sleep- I could not; and to view alone The fairest scenes of land and deep, With none to listen and reply To thoughts with which my heart beat high, Were irksome; for whate'er my mood, In sooth I love not solitude; I on Zuleika's slumber broke, And, as thou knowest that for me * We to the cypress groves had flown, That none can pierce that secret bower IV. "Son of a slave"-the Pacha said- Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, Nor strike one stroke for life and death And hark-of thine own head take heed- Thou seest yon bow-it hath a string!" V. No sound from Selim's lip was heard, But every frown and every word Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. Those gibes had cost another dear, Son of a slave !-and who my sire?" Thus held his thoughts their dark career; And glances ev'n of more than ire Flash forth, then faintly disappear. Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia.-B. Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, and twilight.-B. Old Giaffir gazed upon his son And started; for within his eye Come hither, boy-what, no reply? As sneeringly these accents fell, Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance- Far less would venture into strife Where man contends for fame and life I would not trust that look or tone: No-nor the blood so near my own. That blood--he hath not heard-no more- * Or Christian crouching in the fight- Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: She is the offspring of my choice; Oh! more than ev'n her mother dear, Such to my longing sight art thou; Who bless'd thy birth and bless thee now." VI. Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compliment a hundred-fold) even more than they hate the Christians.-B. When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above;* Who hath not proved how feebly words essay The mind, the Music breathing from her face, Her graceful arms in meekness bending VII. "Zuleika child of gentleness! We Moslem reck not much of blood; * This is a mistake of poets and some theologians; a child's prayer is meaningless-th worthiest prayer is from man in the prime of his vigour and intellect-no child's prayer can be compared to that of a Fénélon This expression has met with objections. I will not refer to "him who hath not music in his soul," but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful; and if he then does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps, of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that analogy) between "painting and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10, "De l'Allemagne." And is not this connection still stronger with the original than the copy,-with the colouring of Nature than of Art? After all, this is rather to be felt than described; still, I think there are some who will understand it, at least they would have done had they beheld the countenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; for this passage is not drawn from imagination but memory, that mirror which Affliction dashes to the earth, and, looking down upon the fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied -B. |