INTRODUCTION TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.

THE "Siege of Corinth" and "Parisina" appeared-nearly simultaneously-the first in January, the second in February, 1816, and a thousand guineas were paid for the copyright of the two. Lord Byron considered neither of them to have much pretension, which may be the reason he kept them back, though chiefly written before other pieces which were earlier published. The motive he assigned for continuing to linger over the scenes of his travels was that they were growing confused in his mind, and from partiality to the places, he was anxious to fix the colours before they faded away. His fondness for these recollections is expressed in the concluding passage of the prefatory lines to the " Siege of Corinth," which were only printed after his death. It was objected to the tale that parts of it were composed, through negligence, in a very irregular metre. What was thought to be carelessness, was, however, design; nor can it be denied that, besides the charm of variety, an increased effect is imparted to shifting emotions by a change in the melody. In the "Siege of Corinth" the artifice has been carried to excess. Several of the transitions are discordant, and while the metre is sometimes too jingling for passionate verse, the language has often less energy and polish than is usual with Byron. Mr. Gifford revised the tale, at the request of the author, and drew his pen through a popular, but by no means faultless passage, in the sixteenth section. His advice in other respects seems sound, and by removing blemishes would have heightened the beauty of the poem. This, after all deductions, is great. The slight, but skilfully constructed tale, is, as usual, one of hapless love, and, as usual, there is a blight upon the soul of the hero; but the tone is not altogether the same with that of its predecessors. Instead of tumultuous deeds and passions, the larger portion is pervaded by an oppressive gloom or a tender melancholy. Alp, a traitor to his creed and country, is leagued with the Turks, to wrest Corinth from the Venetians, and hopes on the morrow to win the fortress, and more precious still, his once promised bride. The awful stillness of the night, the restlessness of the conscience-stricken hero, the sickening spectacle of the dogs devouring the dead, are a fitting introduction to the vision of Francesca, who comes to reproach her lover with his crime, and urge him to repentance. From the pathos, the solemnity and the mystery of this beautiful scene, we pass to the animated description of the siege. Nothing can be more finely imagined than the passage in which Alp, confronting Francesca's father, learns that she died before their last night's colloquy, or than the verification of her prophecy in his instant death,

"Ere his very thought could pray,"

while staggering under the intelligence which reveals to him that she was a visitant

from the other world. The execution here is hardly equal to the thought, and it is the want, in places, of a little more pains in the workmanship which has alone prevented the "Siege of Corinth" from ranking with the best of Byron's tales. The interest ceases with the death of Alp, and there the piece should have been contrived to end.

THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.

In the

year since Jesus died for men,

Eighteen hundred years and ten,

We were a gallant company,

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea.

Oh! but we went merrily!

We forded the river, and clomb the high hill,
Never our steeds for a day stood still;
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread
As a pillow beneath the resting head,
Fresh we woke upon the morrow:

All our thoughts and words had scope,
We had health, and we had hope,

Toil and travel, but no sorrow.
We were of all tongues and creeds ;-
Some were those who counted beads,
Some of mosque, and some of church,

And some, or I mis-say, of neither;
Yet through the wide world might ye search,
Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.

But some are dead, and some are gone,
And some are scatter'd and alone,

And some are rebels on the hills'
That look along Epirus' valleys,
Where freedom still at moments rallies,
And pays in blood oppression's ills;
And some are in a far countree,
And some all restlessly at home;

But never more, oh! never, we
Shall meet to revel and to roam.

But those hardy days flew cheerily !
And when they now fall drearily,

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main,
And bear my spirit back again

Over the earth, and through the air,

A wild bird and a wanderer.

"Tis this that ever wakes my strain,
And oft, too oft, implores again
The few who may endure my lay,
To follow me so far away.
Stranger-wilt thou follow now,

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow?

I.

Many a vanish'd year and age,

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage,
Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands,
A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands."

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock,
Have left untouch'd her hoary rock,

The keystone of a land, which still,
Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill,

The landmark to the double tide

That purpling rolls on either side,
As if their waters chafed to meet,

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet.

The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the Arnauts who followed me) state him to be in revolt upon the mountains, at the head of some of the bands commo in that country in times of trouble.

["A marvel from her Moslem bands."-MS.]

But could the blood before her shed
Since first Timoleon's brother bled,'
Or baffled Persia's despot fled,
Arise from out the earth which drank
The stream of slaughter as it sank,
That sanguine ocean would o'erflow
Her isthmus idly spread below:
Or could the bones of all the slain,
Who perish'd there, be piled again,
That rival pyramid would rise

More mountain-like, through those clear skies.
Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis,

Which seems the very clouds to kiss.

II.

On dun Citharon's ridge appears
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears;
And downward to the Isthmian plain,
From shore to shore of either main,
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines;
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance;
And far and wide as eye can reach
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach;
And there the Arab's camel kneels,
And there his steed the Tartar wheels;
The Turcoman hath left his herd,"
The sabre round his loins to gird;
And there the volleying thunders pour,
Till waves grow smoother to the roar.
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath

Wings the far hissing globe of death;

3 Timoleon, who had saved the life of his brother Timophanes in battle, afterwards killed him for aiming at the supreme power in Corinth, preferring his duty to his country to the obligations of relationship. Dr. Warton says, that Pope once intended to write an epic poem on the story, and that Akenside had the same design.]

4 [Turkish holders of military fiefs, which oblige them to join the army, mounted at their own expense.]

The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patriarchal : they dwell in tents.