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Minotti lifted his aged eye,
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, And made the sign of a cross with a sigh,
All that of living or dead remain, Then seized a torch which blazed thereby;
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, And still he stood, while, with steel and flame,
In one wild roar expired! Inward and onward the Mussulman came.
The shatter'd town-the walls thrown down
The waves a moment backward bent,
The hills that shake, although unrent,
As if an earthquake pass'd Contain’d the dead of ages gone;
The thousand shapeless things all driven Their names were on the graven floor,
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, But now illegible with gore;
By that tremendous blastThe carved crests, and curious hues,
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er The varied marble’s veins diffuse,
On that too long afflicted shore: Were smear'd, and slippery-stain'd, and strown
Up to the sky like rockets go With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: All that mingled there below : There were dead above, and the dead below Many a tall and goodly man, Lay cold in many a coffin'd row;
Scorch'd and shrivell’d to a span, You might see them piled in sable state,
When he fell to carth again By a pale light through a gloomy grate;
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : But War had enter'd their dark caves,
Down the ashes shower like rain; And stored along the vaulted graves
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread
With a thousand circling wrinkles; In masses by the fleshless dead :
Sorne fell on the shore, but, far away, Here, throughout the siege, had been
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay; The Christians' chiefest magazine;
Christian or Moslem, which be they? To these a late-form'd train now led,
Let their mothers see and say ! Minotti's last and stern resource
When, in cradled rest they lay, Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.
And each nursing mother smiled
On the sweet sleep of her child,
Little deem'd she such a day
Would rend those tender limbs away. To strive, and those must strive in vain :
Not the matrons that them bore For lack of further lives, to slake
Could discern their offspring more; The thirst of vengeance now awake,
That one moment left no trace With barbarous blows they gash the dead,
More of human form or face, And lop the already lifeless head,
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone: And fell the statues from their niche,
And down came blazing rafters, strown And spoil the shrines of offerings rich,
Around, and many a falling stone, And from each other's rude hands wrest
Deeply dinted in the clay, The silver vessels saints had bless'd.
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. To the high altar on they go ;
All the living things that heard Oh, but it made a glorious show!
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd; On its table still behold
The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, The cup of consecrated gold;
And howling left the unburied dead; Massy and deep, a glittering prize,
The camels from their keepers broke; Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes :
The distant steer forsook the yokeThat morn it held the holy wine,
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, And burst his girth, and tore his rein; Which his worshippers drank at the break of day
The bullfrog's note, from out the marsh, To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray.
Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh Still a few drops within it lay;
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, And round the sacred table glow
Where echo roll'd in thunder still; Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row,
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, 10 From the purest metal cast;
Bay'd from afar complainingly, A spoil—the richest, and the last.
With a mix'd and mournful sound,
Like crying babe, and beaten hound:
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast,
The eagle left his rocky nest, To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd,
And mounted nearer to the sun, When old Minotti's hand
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun; Touch'd with the torch the train
Their smoke assail'd his startled teak, • 'Tis fired!
And made him higher soar and shriek Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,
Thus was Corinth lost and won !
NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.
T'he Turcoman hath left his herd.
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone. Page 166, line 38.
Page 169, line 37. The life of the Turcomans is wandering and pa I must here acknowledge a close, though unin. triarchal: they dwell in tents.
tentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called " Christabel.” It was not till after these
lines were written that I heard that wild and singuCoumourgiấhe whose closing scene. larly original and beautiful poem recited; and the
Page 167, line 57. MS. of that production I never saw till very recentAli Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, and Y:
and ly, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelo
"I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful ponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was pas
Orlplagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains
Sto Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed mortally wounded in the next, against the Ger-| mans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain that he will not longer delay the publication of a
above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope of Carlowitz,) in Hungary, endeavoring to rally his/ guards. He died of his wounds, next day. His PA
His production, of which I can only add my mite of aplast order was the decapitation of General Brauner, P
probation to the applause of far more competent and some other German prisoners : and his last Judges. words, “Oh that I could thus serve all the Christian dogs !” a speech and act not unlike one of
There is a light cloud by the moon. Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition
Page 171, line 61. and unbounded presumption: on being told that I have been told that the idea expressed from Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, “was a great lines 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose general," he said, “I shall become a greater, and approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is at his expense."
not orignal-at least not mine; it may be found much better expressed in pages 182-3-4 of the Eng
lish version of “ Vathek," (I forget the precise page There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea.
of the French,) a work' to which I have before re. Page 169, line 91.
ferred, and never recur to, or read, without a reThe reader need hardly be reminded that there newal of gratification. are no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean.
The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the 4.
Page 171, line 106. And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiter skull.
The horsetail fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's stand
Page 170, line 8. This spectacle I have seen, such as described, be
And since the day when in the strait. neath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople,
Page 172, line 98. in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow terrace of which projects between In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Dardathe wall and the water. I think the fact is also nelles between the Venetians and the Turks. mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies were probably those of some refractory Janizaries.
The jackals troop, in gather'd cry. 5.
Page 174, line 109. And each scalp nad a single long tuft of hair.
I believe I have taken a poetical license to trans
plant the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw Page 170, line 60.
nor heard these animals; but among the ruins of This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They that Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. Thaunt ruins, and follow armies.
THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP January 22, 1816.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House of Brunswick."-I am aware, that in modern
imes the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of doetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the continent. The following extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical.
“ Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisini, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty; if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor| is there any possible situation in which I can sin-| cerely approve the last act of justice of a parent.”— Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470, new edition.
But it is not to list to the waterfall
quick. There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : A moment more and they shall meet'Tis past—her lover's at her feet
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard ; It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word: And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear.
III. And what unto them is the world beside, With all its change of time and tide? Its living things—its earth and skyAre nothing to their mind and eye. And heedless as the dead are they
Of aught around, above, beneath ; As if all else had passed away,
They only for each other breathe ,
Their very sighs are full of joy
So deep, that did it not decay, That happy madness would destroy
The hearts which feel its fiery sway: Of guilt, of peril, do they deein In that tumultuous tender dream? Who that have felt that passion's power, Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? Or thought how brief such moments last ? But yet—they are already past! Alas! we must awake before We know such vision comes no more.
And whose that name? :tis Hugo's,--his-
The spot of guilty gladness past;
As if that parting were the last. The frequent sigh-the long embrace
The lip that there would cling for ever, While gleams on Parisina's face
The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, As if each calmly conscious star Beheld her frailty from afarThe frequent sigh, the long embrace, Yet binds them to their trysting-place; But it must come, and they must part In fearful heaviness of heart, With all the deep and shuddering chill Which follows fast the deeds of ill.
But sheath'd it ere the point was bare-
He could not slay a thing so fair
At least, not smiling-sleeping-thereNay more :-he did not wake her then,
But gazed upon her with a glance
Which, had she roused her from her trance, Had frozen her sense to sleep againAnd o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. She spake no more-but still she slumber'd While, in his thought, her days are number'd.
To save themselves, and would transfer
The guilt-the shame the doom-to her: Concealment is no more they speak All circumstance which may compel Full credence to the tale they tell : And Azo's tortured heart and ear Have nothing more to feel or hear.
And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed,
To covet there another's bride; But she must lay her conscious head
A husband's trusting heart beside.
And mutters she in her unrest
And clasps her lord unto the breast
Within the chamber of his state,
Upon his throne of judgment sate;
Before a father's face!
And listen’d to each broken word :
As if the Archangel's voice he heard ?
And dashes on the pointed rock
Did Parisina wait her doom;
Glanced gladness round the glittering room Where high-born men were proud to waitWhere Beauty watch'd to imitate
Her gentle voice-her lovely mien-
Now, what is she? and what are they?
XIII. Can she command, or these obey ?
And here stern Azo hid his facem All silent and unheeding now,
For on his brow the swelling vein With downcast eyes and knitting brow,
Throbb’d as if back upon his brain And folded arms, and freezing air,
The hot blood ebb’d and flow'd again, And lips that scarce their scorn forbear,
And therefore bow'd he for a space, Her knights, and dames, her court—is there. And pass'd his shaking hand along And he, the chosen one, whose lance
His eye, to veil it from the throng; Had yet been couch'd before her glance,
While Hugo raised his chained hands, Who—were his arm a moment free
And for a brief delay demands Had died or gain'd her liberty;
His father's ear: the silent sire
Forbids not what his words require.
" It is not that I dread the deathLess for her own despair than him:
For thou hast seen me by thy side Those lids-o'er which the violet vein
All redly through the battle ride, Wandering, leaves a tender stain,
And that not once a useless brand Shining through the smoothest white
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, That e'er did softest kiss invite
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, Now seem'd with hot and livid glow
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : To press, not shade, the orbs below;
Theu gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, Which glance so heavily, and fill,
A gift for which I thank thee not:
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot,
Her offspring's heritage of shame;
But she is in the grave, where he,
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be, But for the eyes that on him gazed :
Her broken heart-my sever'd headHis sorrow, if he felt it, slept;
Shall witness for thee from the dead Stern and erect his brow was raised.
How trusty and how tender were Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd,
Thy youthful love-paternal care. He would not shrink before the crowd ;
'Tis true, that I have done thee wrongBut yet he dared not look on her:
But wrong for wrong :-this, deem'd thy bride, Remembrance of the hours that were
The other victim of thy pride, His guilt-his love his present state
Thou know'st for me was destined long. His father's wrath-all good men's hate
Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charmsHis earthly, his eternal fate
And with thy very crime-my birth, And her's, oh, her's !-he dared not throw
Thou tauntedst me-as little worth ; One look upon that deathlike brow!
A match ignoble for her arms, Else had his rising heart betray'd
Because, forsooth, I could not claim
The lawful heirship of thy name,
Yet, were a few short summers mine,
My name should more than Este's shine
With honors all my own. I gloried in a wife and son;
I had a sword-and have a breast That dream this morning pass'd away,
That should have won as haught? a crest Ere day delines, I shall have none.
As ever waved along the line My life must linger on alone!
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. Well, let that page,--there breathes not one Not always knightly spurs are worn Who would not do as I have done:
The brightest by the better born; Those ties are broken--not by me;
And mine have lanced my courser's flank Let that too pass ;--The doom's prepared ! Before proud chiefs of princely rank, Hugo, the priest awaits on thee,
When charging to the cheering cry And then-thy crime's reward !
Of • Este and of Victory!' Away! address thy prayers to Heaven,
I will not plead the cause of crime, Before its evening stars are met
Nor sue thee to redeem from time Learn if thou there canst be forgiven;
A few brief hours or days that must Its mercy may absolve thee yet.
At length roll o'er my reckless dust ;But here, upon the earth beneath,
Such maddening moments as my past, There is no spot where thou and I
They could not and they did not, lastTogether, for an hour, could breathe :
Albeit my birth and name be base, Farewell! I will not see thee die
And thy nobility of race But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head
Disdain'd to deck a thing like me Away! I cannot speak the rest:
Yet in my lineaments they trace Go! woman of the wanton breast,
Some features of my father's face, Not I, but thou his blood dost shed:
And in my spirit-all of thee. Go! if that sight thou canst outlive,
From thee-this tamelessness of heartAnd joy thee in the life I give."
From thee-nay, wherefore dost thou start ?