ruin of his fortunes; but would stick a bill on his forehead, with this inscription, "To be Let." "That's very well of you," said Mr. Sheridan, "but you may as well be explicit at once, Tom, and say, To be let unfurnished."

Mr. George Wood, as amiable as a man, as he is eminent as a special pleader, was at the theatre seeing the play of Macbeth. In the scene where Macbeth questions the witches in the cavern, what they are doing, they answer, "a deed without a name." This phrase struck the ears of the special pleader much more forcibly than the most energetic passages of the play, and he immediately remarked to a friend who accompanied him. “A deed without a name; why 'tis void."

The same gentleman made a similar comment at the representation of Othello. When the general was so loudly crying out "My handkerchief, my handkerchief," he observed, that if it had been picked out of Desdemona's pocket, Mrs. Litchfield might be indicted for a felony, and Cooke as a receiver of stolen goods."

A gentleman meeting Skeffington, as he was coming out of Hyde Park, asked him what he thought of the new bridge, lately erected: "Tis passable," replied he.

SELECTED POETRY.

THE GIAOUR, A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE.

BY LORD BYRON.

THIS poem has the usual characteristics of lord Byron's poetry-strong masculine thoughts, much of originality in the scenery and cast of expression, and a very peculiarly wild and even misanthrophic melancholy.

If the Giaour, however, affects us less than Childe Harold, it is owing, not to any sensible inferiority in the poetical powers of

the author, but to his having thrown his work into such loose disjointed fragments, that our interest is not suffered to dwell sufficiently on any one part or personage in the poem. The artificial obscurity, too, which he has thrown round the whole, instead of giving greater boldness and relief to the prominent parts, involves the story in so much mystery, that it requires a more close inspection than is given by ordinary readers of poetry, to comprehend it. We should not be able to do justice to its merits by any extract, and shall therefore transcribe the whole into this and the following number of the Port Folio, premising merely for the benefit of those who read more cursorily than ourselves, this short outline of the story. Leila, a slave in the seraglio of Hassan, falls in love with a Christian, a Giaour (or Infidel) and her infidelity being discovered, she is drowned by Hassan. To avenge her death, the Christian leagues with the Arnaut robbers, attacks Hassan in a defile, and slays him in single combat. He then retires to a distant convent, where he broods over his distresses without communicating his story to any one, till on his death-bed he reveals it to his confessor.

THE GIAOUR.

No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff,
High o'er the land he saved in vain—
When shall such hero live again?

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing,
The shadows of the rocks advancing,
Start on the fisher's eye like boat

Of island-pirate or Mainote;
And fearful for his light caique

He shuns the near but doubtful creek,
Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,

Till Port Leone's safer shore

A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles.†

†This is rather an unsatisfactory conjecture of the amiable Mr. Fauvel, the French consul at Athens.-PORT FOLIO.

Receives him by the lovely light

That best becomes an eastern night.

He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled;
The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress;
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers)
And mark'd the mild angelic air-

The rapture of repose that's there-
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The langour of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now-
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality

And curdles to the gazer's heart,

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon-
Yes-but for these and these alone,
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour
He still might doubt the tyrant's power
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;

But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Spark of that flame--perchance of heavenly birth-

Which gleams--but warms no more its cherished earth!

Who thundering comes on blackest steed?

With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed,

Beneath the clattering iron's sound

The cavern'd echoes wake around
In lash for lash, and bound for bound;

The foam that streaks the courser's side,
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide:
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There's none within his rider's breast,
And though to-morrow's tempest lower,
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!*
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace

What time shall strengthen, not efface;
Though young and pale, that sallow front
Is scath'd by fiery Passion's brunt,
Though bent on earth thine evil eye
As meteor like thou glidest by,

Right well I view, and deem thee one

Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

†The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and often alluded to is eastern poetry.

The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, in a metal seabbard, generally of silver; and among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold.

S Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's numerous pretended descendants; with them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of good works; they are the worst of a very indifferent brood.

Salam aleikoum! aleikoum salam! peace be with you; be with you peacethe salutation reserved for the faithful;-to a Christian, "Urlarula," a good journey; or saban hiresem, saban serula; good morn, good even; and sometimes, “may your end be happy;" are the usual salutes.

"The burthen ye so gently bear,

"Seems one that claims your utmost care,
"And, doubtless, holds some precious freight,
"My humble bark would gladly wait."

"Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor,
"And waft us from the silent shore;
"Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply
"The nearest oar that's scatter'd by,
"And midway to those rocks where sleep
"The channel'd waters dark and deep.
*Rest from your task-so-bravely done,
"Our course has been right swiftly run,
"Yet 'tis the longest voyage I trow,
"That one--

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank,
The calm wave rippled to the bank;
I watch'd it as it sank, methought
Some motion from the current caught
Bestirr'd it more-'twas but the beam
That checquer'd o'er the living stream-
I gaz'd, till vanishing from view,
Like lessening pebble it withdrew;

Still less and less, a speck of white

That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight;
And all its hidden secrets sleep,

Known but to Genii of the deep,

Which trembling in their coral caves,

They dare not whisper to the waves.

As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen* of eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer

Invites the young pursuer near,

And leads him on from flower to flower

A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye:

So Beauty lures the full grown child

With hue as bright, and wing as wild;

A chase of idle hopes and fears,

Begun in folly, closed in tears.

*The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the species.