Think me not thankless-but this grief
Looks not to priesthood for relief.*
My soul's estate in secret guess:
But wouldst thou pity more, say less.
When thou canst bid my Leila live,
Then will I sue thee to forgive;
Then plead my cause in that high place
Where purchased masses proffer grace.
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung
From forest-cave her shrieking young,
And calm the lonely lioness:
But soothe not-mock not my distress!

'In earlier days, and calmer hours,
When heart with heart delights to blend,
Where bloom my native valley's bowers,
I had-ah! have I now ?-a friend!
To him this pledge I charge thee send,
Memorial of a youthful vow:

I would remind him of my end;
Though souls absorb'd like mine allow
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim,
Yet dear to him my blighted name.
'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom,

And I have smiled-I then could smileWhen Prudence would his voice assume,

And warn-I reck'd not what-the while: But now remembrance whispers o'er Those accents scarcely mark'd before. Say-that his bodings came to pass,

And he will start to hear their truth,
And wish his words had not been sooth:
Tell him, unheeding as I was,
Through many a busy bitter scene
Of all our golden youth had been,
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory ere I died;

But Heaven in wrath would turn away,
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.
I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
And what have I to do with fame?
I do not ask him not to mourn,

Such cold request might sound like scorn;
And what than friendship's manly tear
May better grace a brother's bier ?
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him-what thou dost behold!
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,
The wrack by passion left behind,
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief

'Tell me no more of fancy's gleam; No, father, no, 'twas not a dream : Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep,

The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so Hittle effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the patient), and was delivered in the usual tone of all orthodox preachers.

But could not, for my burning brow Throbb'd to the very brain as now : I wish'd but for a single tear,

As something welcome, new, and dear:
I wish'd it then, I wish it still;
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not, if I might, be blest;
I want no paradise, but rest.
'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then
I saw her; yes, she lived again;
And shining in her white symar,*
As through yon pale grey cloud the star
Which now I gaze on, as on her,
Who look'd, and looks far lovelier;
Dimly I view its trembling spark;
To-morrow's night shall be more dark;
And I, before its rays appear,
That lifeless thing the living fear.
I wander, father! for my soul
Is fleeting towards the final goal.
I saw her, friar! and I rose
Forgetful of our former woes;
And rushing from my couch, I dart,
And clasp her to my desperate heart;
I clasp-what is it that I clasp?
No breathing form within my grasp,
No heart that beats reply to mine-
Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!
And art thou, dearest, changed so much,
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?
Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold,
I care not; so iny arms enfold
The all they ever wish'd to hold.
Alas! around a shadow prest,
They shrink upon my lonely breast;
Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands,
And beckons with beseeching hands!
With braided hair, and bright-black eye-
I knew 'twas false-she could not die!
But he is dead! within the dell

I saw him buried where he fell;
He comes not, for he cannot break
From earth; why then art thou awake?
They told me wild waves roll'd above
The face I view, the form I love!
They told me-'twas a hideous tale! -
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail :
If true, and from thine ocean-cave
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave,
Oh, pass thy dewy fingers o'er
This brow, that then will burn no more;
Or place them on my hopeless heart:
But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art,
In mercy ne'er again depart !
Or farther with thee bear my soul
Than winds can waft or waters roll!

'Such is my name, and such my tale. Confessor! to thy secret ear

⚫'Symar,' a shroud.

I breathe the sorrows I bewail,

And thank thee for the generous tear This glazing eye could never shed. Then lay me with the humblest dead; And, save the cross above my head, Be neither name nor emblem spread, By prying stranger to be read, Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread.'

He pass'd-nor of his name and race Hath left a token or a trace, Save what the father must not say Who shrived him on his dying day: This broken tale was all he knew Of her he loved, or him he slew.*

The circumstance to which the above story relates, was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago, the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's supposed infidelity: he asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to

give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night! One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror, at so sudden a wrench from all we know, from all we love.' The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaut ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and interpolations by the translator will be easily distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery; and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original For the contents of some of the notes, I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Easter, and, as Mr Weber justly entitles it, sublime tale,' the Caliph Vathek. I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials: some of his incidents are to be found in the Bibliothèque Orientale, but for the cor. rectness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow a translation. before it; his Happy Valley' will not bear a comparison with the Hall of Eblis."

་

KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? [turtle, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ! Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; [perfume, Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom;* Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute:

Gúl,' the rose.

BYRON

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?*

'Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, With whom revenge is virtue.' YOUNG'S Revenge

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

II.

Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparell'd as becomes the brave,
Awaiting each his lord's behest,
To guide his steps, or guard his rest,
Old Giaffir sate in his divan:

Deep thought was in his aged eye; And though the face of Mussulman

Not oft betrays to standers by The mind within, well skill'd to hide All but unconquerable pride,

His pensive cheek and pondering brow Did more than he was wont avow.

III.

'Let the chamber be clear'd.'-The train disappear'd

Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.'
With Giaffir is none but his only son,
And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award.
'Haroun when all the crowd that wait
Are pass'd beyond the outer gate,
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld
My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !)
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower;
Her fate is fix'd this very hour:
Yet not to her repeat my thought;
By me alone be duty taught!'

Pacha! to hear is to obey.'
No more must slave to despot say-
Then to the tower had ta'en his way.
But here young Selim silence brake,

First lowly rendering reverence meet;
And downcast look'd, and gently spake,
Still standing at the Pacha's feet:
For son of Moslem must expire,
Ere dare to sit before his sire!

'Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide
My sister, or her sable guide,
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
Soon turns the Haram's grating key,
Before the guardian slaves awoke,
We to the cypress groves had flown,
And made earth, main, and heaven our own!
There linger'd we, beguiled too long
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ;*

• Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sali, the moral poet of Persia

Till I, who heard the deep tambour * Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, To thee, and to my duty true,

Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew :
But there Zuleika wanders yet-
Nay, Father, rage not-nor forget
That none can pierce that sacred bower
But those who watch the women's tower.'

IV.

'Son of a slave !'-the Pacha said-
'From unbelieving mother bred,
Vain were a father's hope to see
Aught that beseems a man in thee.
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow,
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed,
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed,
Must pore where babbling waters flow,
And watch unfolding roses blow.
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow
Thy listless eyes so much admire,
Would lend thee something of his fire!
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent;
Nay, tamely view old Stamboul's wall
Before the dogs of Moscow fall,

Nor strike one stroke for life and death
Against the curs of Nazareth!
Go-let thy less than woman's hand
Assume the distaff-not the brand.
But Haroun ! to my daughter speed!
And hark-of thine own head take heed-
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing-
Thou seest yon bow-it hath a string !'

V.

No sound from Selim's lips was heard,
At least that met old Giaffir's ear;
But every frown and every word
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword.

'Son of a slave !'-reproach'd with fear
Those gibes had cost another dear.
'Son of a slave !-and who my sire?'
Thus held his thoughts theit dark career;
And glances ev'n of more than ire

Flash forth, then faintly disappear
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son,

And started; for within his eye
He read how much his wrath had done;
He saw rebellion there begun :

'Come hither, boy-what! no reply?
I mark thee--and I know thee too;
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do:
But if thy beard had manlier length,
And if thy hand had skill and strength,
I'd joy to see thee break a lance,
Albeit against my own perchance.'
As sneeringly these accents fell,
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed ;

That eye return'd him glance for glance,
And proudly to his sire's was raised,

• Tambour,' Turkish drum, which sounds at sur and twilight.

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-
I'll watch him closer than before.
He is an Arab to my sight,

Or Christian crouching in the fight;
But hark!-I hear Zuleika's voice;

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: She is the offspring of my choice:

Oh! more than ev'n her mother dear,
With all to hope and nought to fear-
My Peri! ever welcome here!
Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave,
To lips just cool'd in time to save-

Such to my longing sight art thou:
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine
More thanks for life, than I for thine,

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now.'

VI.

Fair as the first that fell of womankind,
When on that dread yet lovely serpent smil-
ing,
[mind-
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her
But once beguiled-and evermore beguiling:
Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendant vision
To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given,
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian,

And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven: Soft as the memory of buried love;

Fure as the prayer which Childhood wafts above,
Was she-the daughter of that rude old Chief,
Who met the maid with tears-but not of grief.
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess
The might, the majesty of Loveliness?
Such was Zuleika-such around her shone
The nameless charms unmark'd by her
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face, t

And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
Her graceful arms in meekness bending
Across her gently-budding breast;
At one kind word those arms extending
To clasp the neck of him who blest
His child, caressing and carest,
Zuleika came-and Giaffir felt
His purpose half within him melt:
Not that against her fancied weal
His heart though stern could ever feel;
Affection chain'd her to that heart;
Ambition tore the links apart.

VII.

'Zuleika! child of gentleness!
How dear this very day must tell,
When I forget my own distress,
In losing what I love so well,
To bid thee with another dwell:
Another! and a braver man
Was never seen in battle's van.
We Moslem reck not much of blood;
But yet the line of Carasman,"
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood
First of the bold Timariot bands
That won and well can keep their lands.
Enough that he who comes to woo
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou :

His years need scarce a thought employ :
I would not have thee wed a boy.
And thou shalt have a noble dower :
And his and my united power
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman,
Which others tremble but to scan,
And teach the messenger what fate
The bearer of such boon may wait. +
And now thou know'st thy father's will-
All that thy sex hath need to know:
'Twas mine to teach obedience still-
The way to love, thy lord may show.'

VIII.

In silence bow'd the virgin's head; And if her eye was fill'd with tears,

Carasman Oglu, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia. Those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition of servíce, are called Timariots; they serve as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry.

When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his death, is strangled instead, and sometimes five or six, one after the other, on the same errand, by command of the refractory patient. If, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, several of these presents were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate; among others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdad, a brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate resistance.

That stifled feeling dare not shed,
And changed her cheek from pale to red
And red to pale, as through her ears
Those winged words like arrows sped,
What could such be but maiden fears?
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye,
Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness,
Even Pity scarce can wish it less!

Whate'er it was the sire forgot;
Or if remember'd, mark'd it not;
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his
steed,

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque, t
And mounting featly for the mead,
With Maugrabee and Mamaluke,
His way amid his Delis took,§
To witness many an active deed
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed.
The Kislar only and his Moors
Watch well the Haram's massy doors.

IX.

His head was leant upon his hand,

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the winding Dardanelles ; But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, Careering cleave the folded felt || With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, Nor heard their Ollahs ¶ wild and loudHe thought but of old Giaffir's daughter!|

X.

No word from Selim's bosom broke;
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke :
Still gazed he through the lattice grate,
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate.
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd,
But little from his aspect learn'd;
Equal her grief, yet not the same:
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame:
But yet that heart, alarm'd, or weak,
She knew not why, forbade to speak.

Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no bells.

Chibouque,' the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouthpiece, and sometimes the ball which contains the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the wealthier orders.

MaugraLee,' Moorish mercenaries.

Delis, bravoes who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, and always begin the action.

A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a single stroke: sometimes a tough turban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful

Ollahs, Alla il Allah, the 'Leilies,' as the Spanish poets call them; the second is Ollah-a cry of which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation 'n the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an amusing contrast.

Yet speak she must-but when essay?
'How strange he thus should turn away!
Not thus we e'er before have met;
Not thus shall be our parting yet.'
Thrice paced she slowly through the room,
And watch'd his eye-it still was fix'd:
She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd
The Persian Atar-gúl's perfume,
And sprinkled all its odours o'er
The pictured roof and marble floor : +
The drops, that through his glittering vest
The playful girl's appeal address'd,
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew,

As if that breast were marble too.
'What, sullen yet? it must not be-
Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee !'
She saw in curious order set

The fairest flowers of Eastern land'He loved them once; may touch them yet, If offer'd by Zuleika's hand.'

The childish thought was hardly breathed
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed;
The next fond moment saw her seat
Her fairy form at Selim's feet :
'This rose to calm my brother's cares
A message from the Bulbul bears; +
It says to-night he will prolong
For Selim's ear his sweetest song;
And though his note is somewhat sad,
He'll try for once a strain more glad,
With some faint hope his alter'd lay
May sing these gloomy thoughts away.

XI.

'What! not receive my foolish flower?
Nay then I am indeed unblest:
On me can thus thy forehead lower?

And know'st thou not who loves thee best?
Oh, Selim dear! oh more than dearest !
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ?
Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest,

Since words of mine and songs must fail
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale.

1 knew our sire at times was stern,
But this from thee had yet to learn:
Too well I know he loves thee not;
But is Zuleika's love forgot?
Ah, deem I right? the Pacha's plan-
This kinsman Bey of Carisman
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine:
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine-
If shrines that ne'er approach allow
To woman's step admit her vow-

Atar-gul, ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in great houses, with one eternal and highly-coloured view of Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of perspective; below, arms, scimitars, &c., are in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed.

It has been much doubted whether the notes of this Lover of the rose' are sad or merry; and Mr Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked some learned controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, though a little inclined to the 'errare mallem,' &c., if Mr Fox was mistaken.