* It warmed the heart of one abhorred : Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee, Nor midst my sins such act record,' 'I lov'd her-love will find its way p. 51. Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, If passion met not some reward- She died-I dare not tell thee how, Still, ere thou dost condemn me- • Had she been false to more than one; Has made me-what thou well may'st hate.' pp. 52, 53. 'He died too in the battle broil 'A time that heeds nor pain nor toil • One cry to Mahomet for aid, 'One prayer to Alla-all he made: The late repentance of that hour, • When Penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave And will not soothe, and can not save!' pp. 54-56. I die-but first I have possest, And come what may, I have been blest; I grieve, but not, my holy guide! This breaking heart and throbbing head • Should seek and share her narrow bed.' pp. 56, 57. '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; 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 liv'd 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. And I before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear.' pp. 62, 63. I saw him buried where he fell: They told me- -'twas a hideous tale! This brow that then will burn no more; But, shape or shade!-whateʼer thou art, In mercy, ne'er again depart Or farther with thee bear my soul, Than winds can waft - or waters roll! pp. 63, 64. 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 we knew Of her he lov'd, or him he slew.' p. 65. We feel assured that we are doing better in giving our readers these quotations, than in searching out for subjects of criticism. We have endeavoured to lay before them the character of the Giaour entire, and, in so doing, have left ourselves but little room for the softer parts of the poem. Softer parts, however, it has, and those of exquisite beauty. It opens with a description of Greece, some parts of which are most elegant and touching. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share, Is heard, and seen the evening star ▷ Vo X. He who hath bent him o'er the dead, That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now- Where cold Obstruction's apathy The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon- Some moments-aye-one treacherous hour, So fair-so calm-so softly seal'd The first-last look-by death reveal'd! Such is the aspect of this shore 'Tis Greece-but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start-for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath.' pp. 4-6. The plunging of Leila's body in the waves must not be omitted. Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, And waft us from the silent shore; * * Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, Still less and less, a speck of white That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; Known but to the Genii of the deep, Which, trembling in their coral caves, They dare not whisper to the waves.' pp. 19, 20. We add one image, which, however, is certainly not to be ranked among the softer parts of the poem. It is as if the dead could feel The cold consumers of their clay!' p. 47. Undoubtedly there are faults in the poem. The character of the Giaour, in particular, we think is made up of qualities which, in real life, never were nor will be united; and the moral tendency of this fragment (as well as of the unfinished poem of Childe Harold) we are convinced, is exceedingly pernicuous. They both inculcate the dangerous error that vice does not degrade the mind. How would Shakespeare have tarnished the lustre of his name, had he been the dupe of a similar delusion-and instead of redeeming his villains from contempt, by courage and intellect, attempted to recommend them to our sympathy, by grafting upon them virtues foreign to their nature? Among the minor blemishes we may notice, the length to which some of the descriptions run out,-as that of the note, (p. 2,) of Hassan's deserted palace, (p. 15 and seq.) of the river rolling into ocean,' (34,) and of Leila's beauty, (25 and seq.) The similes also are too minutely and too artificially traced, as that of a beauty and a butterfly, of a conscience-stricken aind and a scorpion girt by fire,' and, above all, that of a heart in love and metal 'in the furnace. That the style, too, is not always in the best taste our readers must have already seen. There are a great many of those glittering expressions, vague and undefined, that are too common in the poetry of Scott; those splashes of diction, those wild and whirling words' that have no propriety and convey no meaning, which sometimes make a rhyme, and sometimes satisfy the inattentive reader with the semblance of worth.' We shall not be at the pains of pointing them out; among so many beauties we must compromise for a few faults; and it is in vain to expect in the same poem the sublimity of the great style, and the minute elegance of the little. We do not think it necessary to apologize for having been somewhat backward in our notice of this poem, because some of the finest passages are to be found only in the last editions. |