XXVIII.

Within the place of thousand tombs
That shine beneath, while dark above,
The sad but living cypress glooms,

And withers not, though branch and leaf
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,
Like early unrequited Love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Ev'n in that deadly grove-
A single rose is shedding there
Its lonely lustre meek and pale:
It looks as planted by Despair

So white so faint-the slightest gale
Might whirl the leaves on high;

And yet, though storms and blight assail,
And hands more rude than wintry sky
May wring it from the stem-in vain-
To-morrow sees it bloom again!
The stalk some spirit gently rears,
And waters with celestial tears;

For well may maids of Helle deem
That this can be no earthly flower,
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour,
And buds unshelter'd by a bower;

Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower,
Nor woos the summer beam :
To it the livelong night there sings

A bird unseen-but not remote:
Invisible his airy wings,

But soft as harp that Houri strings,
His long entrancing note!

It were the Bulbul; but his throat,

Though mournful, pours not such a strain :

For they who listen cannot leave

The spot, but linger there and grieve,
As if they loved in vain !

And yet so sweet the tears they shed,

"Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread,

They scarce can bear the morn to break

That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well!

But when the day-blush bursts from high,

Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe

(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,
Yet harsh be they that blame)

That note so piercing and profound
Will shape and syllable its sound
Into Zuleika's name. *

to every reader-it is given in the first annotation (p. 67) of "The Pleasures of Memory;" a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous; but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur.-B.

"And airy tongues that syllable men's names,"MILTON. For a belief that the souls

P

"Tis from her cypress' summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word;
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth
That white rose takes its tender birth.
There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed-the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell;
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave:

And there by night, reclined, 'tis said,
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:
And hence extended by the billow,
"Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!
Where first it lay, that mourning flower
Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!

TO GENEVRA.

I.

THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features-caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought,
Seems sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair-
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That-but I know thy blessèd bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent),
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

December 17, 1813.

of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East, Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven (see Orford's "Reminiscences"), and many other instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly.-For this anecdote, see Orford's "Letters."-B

II.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe;
And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes-but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

THE

CORSAIR.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

MY DEAR MOORE,

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East: none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true; at least, was a part of his parallel.

Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians.

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable?-Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but, for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award of "Gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I confess it is the measure most after my own heart: Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn ns from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure, certainly; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present, and will be of my future, regret.

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so-if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of " drawing 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 present 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 perhaps -but 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,

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.
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-
Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core,

Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?

The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences; but the whole of the Egean isles are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.-B.

Byron's lameness made the water his element. Had he been a devoted hunter, or a soldier, his apostrophes would have been quite as warm.