Contains no fabled hero's ashes→→ And that around the undoubted scene Thine own broad Hellespont' still dashes- Who there could gaze denying thee!" Of our author's classic enthusiasm a stronger proof cannot be imagined, than a fact mentioned by him in a note to this passage, namely, that he swam across the Hellespont. Zuleika, conducted by Selim in the dress of a Turkish sailor, arrives at a grotto near the shore. Here he unfolds to her the secret of his birth, and of his father's murder, and informs her that during the absence of Giaffir in the war with Paswan Oglou, Haroun indulged him with liberty to go abroad, availing himself of which he had visited the Grecian Islands, and become the chief of a band of pirates, who were now on their way to the shore with a bark to convey her and him to a retreat he had provided for their reception and security, in one of those islands-and he enforces his solicitations for her departure with him, by reminding her that if she return back to the haram, the next morning will place her in the possession of Sultan Osman. The whole of this interesting scene is conducted by the author with great art, and in a charming uninterrupted strain of fine poetry. One passage claims very particular applause for the fervid glow of feeling-the enthusiastic rapture in which he describes his emotions on being set at liberty by Haroun. ""Tis vain-my tongue cannot impart Survey'd earth-ocean-sun and sky! The world-pay-heaven itself, was mine." And now for the catastrophe-while Selim is speaking to Zuleika, the approach of a multitude of people with torches gives them the sad intelligence that their escape from the haram has been discovered. The poet rises with the exigency, and presents such Essayed to speak, or look reply- Far flash'd on high a blazing torch! Another and another-and another 'O! fly—no more yet now my more than brother!" The fearful lights are gleaming red; O! must that grot be Selim's grave?" As a last, but almost hopeless effort, Selim fires a pistol as a signal to his band to approach the shore, and determines to fight his way to the bark. In no part of his works has the poet displayed more genius than in his description of the result. "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; And almost met the meeting wave;— His band are plunging in the bay, Here we find the poet's words keep pace with the confused celerity of the transaction. The persons of his drama are breathless with fury, ardour, effort and so seems his muse :-the fearful anxiety-the painful suspense, are kept up to the very last moment of Selim's existence-and the abruptness, as well as the particular words announcing his fall, are singularly beautiful, appropriate, and affecting. From this to the end of the poem, all is one continued blaze of poetic fire, in which the particular details before judiciously overlooked in order to get at the catastrophe, and particularly the death of Zuleika, are recapitulated. To extract all that we admire in this poem, would be to transcribe almost the whole of it. We fear that our admiration of the work may have already led us to trespass too far on some of our readers—but we are satisfied that those whose judgment is most desirable will be pleased. To the book itself we refer them for a multitude of beauties which it would be inconsistent with the nature of this article to introduce into it by way of extract. Upon the whole, the Bride of Abydos, as it seems to have been conceived in a season of sorrow, deep and sincere, so it is breathed forth in the sweetest accents of plaintive poetry. Even in the irregularities of the verse there is harmony;-and a certain wildness and disorder which pervades it, in common with most of Lord Byron's poems, far from creating perplexity and disgust, as in other hands they generally do, fascinate with their gracefulness, and delight with their beauty. How different from the ordinary cant of Cupid's flames and darts, and the fulsome wailings of the mob of amatory rhymers, are the felicitous "breathing thoughts," the nervous diction, and the soft and elegant numbers of our poet; of what author can more be said in praise than that he differs essentially from that herd? The merits of Lord Byron, however, stand upon a still stronger foundation-the positive, intrinsic excellence of his poetry: for we venture to affirm that he who reads his Bride of Abydos, without breathing a wish for a long continuance of his lordship's labours, can be but little susceptible of the thrilling sensations of delight imparted by genuine poetry. We cannot, however, dismiss the work without one observation more. The only exceptionable point attending it is its title. To us it appears a palpable misnomer. Zuleika, the only female in it, is not a BRIDE. C. POETRY. HALLOW MY FANCIE. Anonymous, IN melancholic fancie Out of myself, In the Vulcan dancie, All the world surveying, Nowhere staying, Just like a fairie-elf; Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, Amidst the misty vapours, Fain would I know, What doth cause the tapours. Why the clouds benight us, And affright us, While we travel here below. Fain would I know, what makes the roaring thunder, And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder, Fain would I know the reason, Why the little ant, All the summer season, Layeth up provision, On condition, To know no winter's want: And how huswives, that are so good and painful, Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful, Hallow my fancie, whither wilt thou go? Ships, ships, will descrie you, Amidst the main, I will come and try you, What's your end and aim. VOL. III. New Series. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, When I look before, There I do behold, There's none that sees or knows; All the world's a gadding, Running madding, None doth his station hold. He that is below, envieth him that riseth, Look, look what bustling Here I do espy! Each other justling, Every one turmoiling, Th' other spoiling, As I did pass them by. One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion; Amidst the foamy ocean, Fain would know, What doth cause the motion, And returning In its journeying, And doth so seldom swerve! And how these little fishes, that swim beneath salt water, Do never blind their eye, methinks it is a matter, An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater! Hallow my fancie, whither wilt thou go? Fain would I be resolved How things are done; And where the bull was calved Of bloody Phalaris, And where the tailor is, That works to the man i' the moon! Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly; And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly; And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. Hallow my fancie, whither wilt thou go? |