And o'er him bends that foe with brow
As dark as his that bled below.-

"Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,
"But his shall be a redder grave;
"Her spirit pointed well the steel
"Which taught that felon heart to feel.
"He call'd the Prophet, but his power
"Was vain against the vengeful Giaour:
"He call'd on Alla-but the word
"Arose unheeded or unheard.
"Thou Paynim fool!-could Leila's prayer
"Be pass'd, and thine accorded there?
"I watch'd my time, I leagu'd with these,
"The traitor in his turn to sieze;

"My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done,
"And now I go-but go alone."

A turban carv'd in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,
Whereon can now be scarcely read
The Koran verse that mourns the dead;
Point out the spot where Hassan fell

A victim in that lonely dell.

There sleeps as true an Osmanlie

As e'er at Mecca bent the knee;

As ever scorn'd forbidden wine;

Or pray'd with face toward the shrine,

In orisons resum'd anew

At solemn sound of " Alla Hu!"

Yet died he by a stranger's hand,

And stranger in his native land-
Yet died he as in arms he stood,

And unaveng'd at least, in blood.

The turban-pillar-an inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs of the Osman. lies, whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass similar mementos; and on inquiry you are informed that they record some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge.

"Alla Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine voice (which they frequently have) the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom.

But him the maids of Paradise
Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes
On him shall glance for ever bright;
They come their kerchiefs green they wave,*
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour,
Is worthiest an immortal bower.

But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe;
And from its torments 'scape alone
To wander round lost Eblis' throne;
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable-
Around-within-thy heart shall dwell,
Nor ear can hear, nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!-
But first, on earth as Vampires sent,
The corse shall from its tomb be rent;
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race:
There, from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse;
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the dæmon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,

Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem.

The following is part of a battle song of the Turks:-" I see-I see a dark eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green; and eries aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee," &c.

† Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. If the answers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red hot mace till properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is no sinecure; there are but two; and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, their hands are always full.

Eblis the oriental Prince of Darkness.

The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these "Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is " Vardoulacha," which the worthy old traveller has thus transposed. I recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror.

But one that for thy crime must fall-
The youngest-most belov'd of all,
Shall bless thee with a father's name-
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallowed hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock when shorn,
Affection's fondest pledge was worn;
But now is borne away by thee
Memorial of thine agony'

Wet with thine own best blood shall drip,*
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave-
Go-and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they!

"How name ye yon lone Caloyer?

"His features I have scann'd before
"In mine own land-'tis many a year,
"Since, dashing by the lonely shore,
"I saw him urge as fleet a steed
"As ever serv'd a horseman's need.
"But once I saw that face-but then
"It was so mark'd with inward pain
"Icould not pass it by again;
"It breathes the same dark spirit now,
"As death were stamp'd upon his brow.”

"'Tis twice three years at summer tide
"Since first among our freres he came;
"And here it soothes him to abide

"For some dark deed he will not name.

"But never at our vesper prayer,

"Nor e'er before confession chair

The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, are the Dever-failing signs of a Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly attested.

"Kneels he, nor recks he when arise
"Incense or anthem to the skies,
"But broods within his cell alone,
"His faith and race alike unknown.
"The sea from Paynim land he crost,
"And here ascended from the coast,
"Yet seems he not of Othman race,
"But only Christian in his face:
"I'd judge him some stray renegade,
"Repentant of the change he made,
"Save that he shuns our holy shrine,
"Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.
"Great largess to these walls he brought,
"And thus our abbot's favour bought;
"But were I prior, not a day

"Should brook such stranger's further stay,
"Or pent within our penance cell
"Should doom him there for aye to dwell.
"Much in his visions mutters he

"Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea;
"Of sabres clashing-foemen flying,
"Wrongs aveng'd-and Moslem dying.
"On cliff he hath been known to stand,
"And rave as to some bloody hand
"Fresh sever'd from its parent limb,
"Invisible to all but him,

"Which beckons onward to his grave,
"And lures to leap into the wave."

To love the softest hearts are prone,
But such can ne'er be all his own;
Too timid in his woes to share,
To meek to meet, or brave despair;
And sterner hearts alone may feel
The wound that time can never heal.

The rugged metal of the mine
Must burn before its surface shine,
But plung'd within the furnace flame,
It bends and melts-though still the same;
Then temper'd to thy want or will,
"Twill serve thee to defend or kill;

A breast-plate for thine hour of need,
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;
But if a dagger's form it bear,

Let those, who shape its edge beware!
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art,
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;
From these its form and tone is ta'en,
And what they make it must remain,
But break-before it bend again.

If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share
Even bliss-'twere wo alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate,
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay!
It is as if the desert-bird,*

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream,
To still her famish'd nestlings' scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd;
Should rend her rash devoted breast,
And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find

Are rapture to the dreary void—
The leafless desert of the mind-

The waste of feelings unemploy'd--
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar,
Than ne'er to brave the billows more--

Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,

The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood.