Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thon, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. The love where Death has set his seal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see The better days of life were ours; The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have passed away; I might have watched through long decay. The flower in ripened bloom unmatched And yet it were a greater grief I know not if I could have borne To see thy beauties fade; The night that followed such a morn Thy day without a cloud hath past, As once I wept, if I could weep My tears might well be shed, To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, Yet how much less it were to gain, The all of thine that cannot die And more thy buried love endears CHAPTER III. THE success of Childe Harold' placed Lord Byron upon a very different footing in the literary world from that which he had occupied before his travels, while even the members of the aristocracy courted his society, and were glad to recognise him as one of their own body. Upon this occasion they had good taste and good sense enough to perceive that genius like that of the noble poct seldom blossomed among them; and that, when it did, they ought to prize it no less for its intrinsic value than for its rarity. Lord Byron, however, was too deeply penetrated with a sense of other and more really noble pursuits, to catch very eagerly at the temptation which was held out to him. The circle of his acquaintance was but little increased; he usually lived in comparative retirement; and, when he mixed in the gay world, it was only by assisting at the parties of his relations and the very limited number of his most intimate friends. For several years after his arrival in London he occupied chambers in the Albany, where his establishment was extremely quiet, and, in the French sense of the word, modeste, His only domestics were a female servant, and Fletcher, his valet, who had been his servant at college, who had accompanied him on his travels, and who never quitted him from the moment of entering his service until that which, by terminating the life of the master, deprived the follower of his best and kindest friend. Lord Byron devoted himself almost entirely to literary pursuits, and, among other things, to the completion of some of those poetical sketches which he had made in the East. The first of these which he gave to the public was the tale of the Giaour,' which is one of the most original and spirited of his productio ns. The story is that of a young Venetian, who, at the time when the Seven Islands were in the possession of the republic of Venice, had become enamoured of Leila, the favorite slave of Hassan, a rich emir. His suit had been prosperous, and he had for a time succeeded in baffling the jealous vigilance of her lord. This, however, could not continue for a very long period. Hassan's discovery of the infidelity of Leila is followed by the infliction of that summary vengeance, which, if it does not make the females of the East more virtuous, at least prevents the frequent repetition of their offences. The lover being beyond his reach, he, according to the most approved eastern method in such cases, had the hapless fair fastened up in a sack, and, carrying her in a boat to where the channeled waters' are dark and deep, sunk it into the dark and shuddering flood. The lover of the murdered beauty, distracted at the news of his mistress's fate, resolves at least to avenge that which he could not avert. He leagues himself with a band of Arnaouts, and, attacking Hassan and his train, as the latter is on a journey to woo a rich and youthful bride, he slays him in the desert, and tells him it is for Leila that he strikes the blow. After having satisfied his vengeance he retires to a monastery, where, after living some years of agony, he dies; but, before his death, discloses to one of the brotherhood the tale of his love, his grief, and his revenge. Lord Byron says he heard this story, by accident, recited in a coffeehouse in the Levant, by one of those professional story-tellers who bound there, and who partly sing, and partly recite, their narratives. He adds modestly, the additions and interpolations by the translator will easily be distinguished from the rest by the want of eastern imagery. and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original.' Perhaps to the impression which this disjointed manner of hearing the story, and the additional beauties which the invention of the poet supplied, may be ascribed the broken manner in which the poem is written. The transitions are abrupt, but they are always highly effective; and, although in no place the thread of the narrative is kept up, it is in no place obscure or unintelligible. The poem opens with a description of modern Greece, which has been so often quoted, and so highly praised, that it is now merely necessary to draw the reader's attention to it: He who hath bent him o'er the dead The last of danger and distress, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) The rapture of repose, that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, Whose land from plain to mountain-cave These scenes, their story not unknown, |