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Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks in 1789-90 for the independence of his country; work the guns. Their dress is picturesque; and I abandoned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and have seen the Capitan Pacha more than once wear- the Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. ing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are He is said to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and generally naked. The buskins described in the Riga are the two most celebrated of the Greek text as sheathed behind with silver, are those of an revolutionists. Arnaut robber, who was my host, (he had quitted the profession,) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the Morea; they were plated in scales one over the other, like the back of an armadillo.

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To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. Page 129, line 62. "Rayahs" all who pay the capitation tax, called the Haratch."

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Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. Page 129, line 66. The first of voyages is one of the few with which

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sometimes the name of the place of their man- the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. ufacture, but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Among those in my possession, is one with a blade of singular construction; it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpenOr only know on land the Tartar's home. tine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering Page 129, line 67. of flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and possible use such a figure could add: he said, in Turkomans, will be found well detailed in any book Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussulmans of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm pehad an idea that those of this form gave a severer culiar to itself cannot be denied. A young French wound; and liked it because it was "piu feroce." renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for found himself alone, galloping in the desert, withits peculiarity. out a sensation approaching to rapture, which was indescribable.

30.

But like the nephew of a Cain.

Page 128, line 8. It is to be observed, that every allusion to anything or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew: indeed, the former profess to be much better acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our own sacred writ, and not content with Adam, they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in the language. It is therefore no violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem.

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He drank one draught, nor needed more. Page 128, line 49. Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I was in the country, married the daughter of his victim, some years after the event had taken place, at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, after dressing.

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I sought by turns and saw them all.
Page 129, line 35.
The Turkish notions of almost all islands are con-
fined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to.

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The last of Lambro's patriots there.
Page 129, line 58.
Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts

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"Where is my child?"—an echo answers—“Where?" Page 131, line 81.

"I came to the place of my birth and cried, "the friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo answered, Where are they?'"-From an Arabic

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The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader-it is given in the first annotation, page 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.

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Into Zuleika's name. Page 131, line 129. "And airy tongues that syllable men's names,"

Milton.

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the east. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Dutchess 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.

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I DEDICATE to you the last production with which of Spenser is, perhaps, too slow and dignified for I shall trespass on public patience, and your indul-narrative; though, I confess, it is the measure most gence, for some years; and I own that I feel anx-after my own heart; Scott alone, of the present ious to avail myself of this latest and only opportu- generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over nity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this by unshaken public principle, and the most un-is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty gendoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks ius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our you among the firmest of her patriots; while you dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, not the most popular measure certainly; but as I has been the years he had lost before it commenced, did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without to the voice of more than one nation. It will at further apology, and take my chance once more with least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the that versification, in which I have hitherto published gratification derived from your society, nor aban- nothing but compositions whose former circulation is doned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your part of my present, and will be of my future regret. leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your With regard to my story, and stories in general, friends for too long an absence. It is said, among I should have been glad to have rendered my perthose friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in sonages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasthe composition of a poem whose scene will be laid much as I have been sometimes criticised, and conin the East; none can do those scenes so much sidered no less responsible for their deeds and qualjustice. The wrongs of your own country, the mag-ities than if all had been personal. Be it so-if I nificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and have deviated into the gloomy vanity of "drawing feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and from self," the pictures are probably like, since they Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish are unfavorable; and if not, those who know me Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but wildness, that any but my acquaintance should think the tenderness, and originality are part of your national author better than the beings of his imagining; but claim of oriental descent, to which you have already I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusethus far proved your title more clearly than the most ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present zealous of your country's antiquarians. instance, when I see several bards, (far more de

May I add a few words on a subject on which all serving, I allow,) in very reputable plight, and men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? quite exempted from all participation in the faults -Self. I have written much, and published more of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found than enough to demand a longer silence than I now with little more morality than "The Giaour," and meditate; but for some years to come, it is my in-perhaps-but no-I must admit Childe Harold to

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II.

be a very repulsive personage; and as to his iden-]
tity, those who like it must give him whatever Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle
"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,

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"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!

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while;
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,
They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand;
Select the arms-to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the shore:
For the wild bird the busy springes set,
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net;
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye of enterprize;
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil,
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil:
No matter where-their chief's allotment this;
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss.
But who that CHIEF? His name on every shore
Is famed and fear'd-they ask and know no more.
With these he mingles not but to command;
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,
But they forgive his silence for success.
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill,
That goblet passes him untasted still-
And for his fare--the rudest of his crew
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too;
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits,
His short repast in humbleness supply
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny.
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,
His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence.
"Steer to that shore!"-they sail. "Do this!"-
'tis done:

"Now form and follow me!"-the spoil is won.

And all obey and few inquire his will;
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.

III.

Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please-Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,
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 spirits 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?
Let him who crawls enamor'd 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 falters forth his soul,
Onrs with one pang-one bound-escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When ocean shrouds and sepulckres 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!"

"A sail!-a sail!"-a promised prize to hope;
Her nation-flag-how speaks the telescope?
No prize, alas!-but yet a welcome sail :
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.
Yes-she is ours-a home-returning bark-
Blow fair, thou breeze!-she anchors ere the dark.
Already doubled is the cape-our bay
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray
How gloriously her gallant course she goes!
Her white wings flying-never from her foes-
She walks the waters like a thing of life,

And seems to dare the elements to strife.

Who would not brave the battle-fire-the wreck-
To move the monarch of her peopled deck?

IV.

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings;
The sails are furl'd; and anchoring round she swings,
And gathering loiterers on the land discern
Her boat descending from the latticed stern.
'Tis mann'd-the oars keep concert to the strand,
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.
Hail to the welcome shout!-the friendly speech!
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;
The smile, the question, and the quick reply,
And the heart's promise of festivity!

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