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from self,” the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the ptesent instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than “ The Giaour,” and perhapsbut no-I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever “ alias” they please.

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself,

most truly,

and affectionately,

his obedient servant,

BYRON.

January 2, 1814.

THE CORSAIR;

A TALE.

CANTO I.

nessun maggior dolore,
“ Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
“ Nella miseria, -

DANTE.

I.

« O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, “ Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, “ Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, “ Survey our empire and behold our home! “ These are our realms, no limits to their sway“Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. “ Ours the wild life in tumult still to range “ From toil to rest, and joy in every change.

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" Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! • Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! “ Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot

please “ Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, " And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, “ The exulting sense the pulse's maddening play, “ That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? “ That for itself can woo the approaching fight, And turn what some deem danger to delight;

That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, “ And where the feebler faint-can only feel - 20 “ Feel-to the rising bosom's inmost core, “ Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? " No dread of death-if with us die our foes“ Save that it seems even duller than repose: " Come when it will-we snatch the life of life“ When lost-what recks it by disease or strife?

c

“ Let him who crawls enamoured of decay,

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away; • Heave his thick breath; and shake his palsied head; “ Ours—the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. “ While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul, 31 “ Ours with one pang—one bound-escapes controul. “ His corse may boast it's urn and narrow cave, “ And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave: “ Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, “ When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. “For us, even banquets fond regret supply “ In the red cup that crowns our memory; • And the brief epitaph in danger's day, • When those who win at length divide the prey, " And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, • How had the brave who fell exulted now!"

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II.

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle,
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while;

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