He stood alone-a renegade
Against the country he betray'd;
He stood alone amidst his band,
Without a trusted heart or hand:
They follow'd him, for he was brave,
And great the spoil he got and gave;
They crouch'd to him, for he had skill
To warp and wield the vulgar will;
But still his Christian origin
With them was little less than sin.
They envied even the faithless fame
He earn'd beneath a Moslem name;
Since he, their mightiest chief, had been
In youth a bitter Nazarene.

They did not know how pride can stoop,
When baffled feelings withering droop;
They did not know how hate can burn
In hearts once changed from soft to stern;
Nor all the false and fatal zeal
The convert of revenge can feel.
He ruled them-man may rule the worst,
By ever daring to be first;

So lions o'er the jackal sway;

The jackal points, he fells the prey, (1)
Then on the vulgar yelling press,
To gorge the relics of success.

XIII.

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse
The quick successive throbs convulse;
In vain from side to side he throws
His form, in courtship of repose; (2)
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start
Awoke him with a sunken heart.
The turban on his hot brow press'd,

The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast,
Though oft and long beneath its weight
Upon his eyes had slumber sate,
Without or couch or canopy,
Except a rougher field and sky

Than now might yield a warrior's bed,
Than now along the heaven was spread.
He could not rest, he could not stay
Within his tent to wait for day,
But walk'd him forth along the sand,
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand.
What pillow'd them? and why should he
More wakeful than the humblest be,
Since more their peril, worse their toil?
And yet they fearless dream of spoil;
While he alone, where thousands pass'd
A night of sleep, perchance their last,
In sickly vigil wander'd on,
And envied all he gazed upon

XIV.

He felt his soul become more light
Beneath the freshness of the night.
Cool was the silent sky, though calm,
And bathed his brow with airy balm:
Behind, the camp-before him lay,
In many a winding creek and bay,

(1) In the MS.

"As lions o'er the jackal sway,

By springing dauntless on the prey;
They follow on, and yelling press
To gorge the fragments of success."-L. E.

(2) In the MS.

"He vainly turn'd from side to side, And each reposing posture tried."-L. E.

Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow,
High and eternal, such as shone
Through thousand summers brightly gone,
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime
It will not melt, like man, to time:
Tyrant and slave are swept away,
Less form'd to wear before the ray;
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest,
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest,
While tower and tree are torn and rent,
Shines o'er its craggy battlement;
In form a peak, in height a cloud,
In texture like a hovering shroud,
Thus high by parting Freedom spread,
As from her fond abode she fled,
And linger'd on the spot, where long
Her prophet spirit spake in song.
Oh! still her step at moments falters
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars,
And fain would wake, in souls too broken,
By pointing to each glorious token:
But vain her voice, till better days
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays
Which shone upon the Persian flying,
And saw the Spartan smile in dying.

XV.

Not mindless of these mighty times
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes;
And through this night, as on he wander'd,
And o'er the past and present ponder'd,
And thought upon the glorious dead
Who there in better cause had bled,
He felt how faint and feebly dim
The fame that could accrue to him,
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword,
A traitor in a turban'd horde;
And led them to the lawless siege,
Whose best success were sacrilege:
Not so had those his fancy number'd,

The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd;
Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain,
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain.
They fell devoted, but undying;

The very gale their names seem'd sighing:
The waters murmur'd of their name;
The woods were peopled with their fame;
The silent pillar, lone and grey,
Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay;
Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain,
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain;
The meanest rill, the mightiest river
Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever.
Despite of every yoke she bears,
That land is Glory's still and theirs! (3)
"Tis still a watch-word to the earth.
When man would do a deed of worth
He points to Greece, and turns to tread,
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head:
He looks to her, and rushes on
Where life is lost, or freedom won. (4)
(3) Here follows, in the MS.-

"Immortal-boundless-undecay'd;
Their souls the very soil pervade."-L. E.

(4) In the MS.

"Where Freedom loveliest may be won."-L. E.

XVI.

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused,
And woo'd the freshness Night diffused.
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, (1)
Which changeless rolls eternally;

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood,
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood;
And the powerless moon beholds them flow
Heedless if she come or go:

Calm or high, in main or bay,

On their course she hath no sway.

The rock unworn its base doth bare,

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there;
And the fringe of the foam may be seen below,
On the line that it left long ages ago:
A smooth short space of yellow sand
Between it and the greener land.

He wander'd on, along the beach,

Till within the range of a carbine's reach

[cold?

Of the leaguer'd wall; but they saw him not.
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? (2)
Did traitors lurk in the Christian's hold?
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd
I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball,
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown,
That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town;
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,

As his measured step on the stone below
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro;

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall
Hold o'er the dead their carnival, (3)
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb;
They were too busy to bark at him!
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh,
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;

And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, (4)
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, [dull,
When they scarce could rise from the spot where
they fed;

So well had they broken a lingering fast

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band:
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear,
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, (6)
All the rest was shaven and bare:
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,
The hair was tangled round his jaw.
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay.

XVII.

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;

But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, (7)
Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. (8)
There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,
And Honour's eye on daring deeds!

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, (9)
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there;
All regarding man as their prey,
All rejoicing in his decay. (10)

XVIII.

There is a temple in ruin stands,
Fashion'd by long-forgotten hands;
Two or three columns, and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown!

Out upon Time! it will leave no more

Of the things to come than the things before! (11)
Out upon Time! who for ever will leave
But enough of the past for the future to grieve
O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be:
What we have seen, our sons shall see;
Remnants of things that have pass'd away,

(1) The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean.

(2) In the MS.

"Or would not waste on a single head

The ball, on numbers better sped."—L. E.

(3) "Omit the rest of this section." Gifford.-L. E. (4) This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow terrace of which projects between the wall and the water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies were probably those of some refractory janizaries.

["The sensations produced by the state of the weather, and leaving a comfortable cabin were," says Mr. Hobhouse, "in unison with the impressions which we felt when, passing under the palace of the sultans and gazing at the gloomy cypresses which rise above the walls, we saw two dogs gnawing a dead body."-P. E.]

(5) "This passage shows the force of Lord Byron's pencil." Jeffrey.-L. E.

(6) This tuft, or long lock. is left from a superstition that Mahomet will draw them into paradise by it.

He sate him down at a pillar's base, (1)
And pass'd his hand athwart his face;
Like one in dreary musing mood,
Declining was his attitude;

His head was drooping on his breast,
Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd;

And o'er his brow, so downward bent,
Oft his beating fingers went,
Hurriedly, as you may see
Your own run over the ivory key,
Ere the measured tone is taken
By the chords you would awaken.
There he sate all heavily,

As he heard the night-wind sigh.

Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,
Sent that soft and tender moan? (2)

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea,
But it was unrippled as glass may be;
He look'd on the long grass-it waved not a blade;
How was that gentle sound convey'd?
He look'd to the banners-each flag lay still,
So did the leaves on Citharon's hill.

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek;
What did that sudden sound bespeak?
He turn'd to the left-is he sure of sight?
There sate a lady, youthful and bright!

XX.

He started up with more of fear
Than if an armed foe were near.
"God of my fathers! what is here?
Who art thou, and wherefore sent
So near a hostile armament?"
His trembling hands refused to sign
The cross he deem'd no more divine:
He had resumed it in that hour,
But conscience wrung away the power.
He gazed, he saw: he knew the face
Of beauty, and the form of grace;
It was Francesca by his side,

The maid who might have been his bride!
The rose was yet upon her cheek,
But mellow'd with a tenderer streak:
Where was the play of her soft lips fled?
Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red.
The ocean's calm within their view,
Beside her eye had less of blue;
But like that cold wave it stood still,
And its glance, (3) though clear, was chill.
Around her form a thin robe twining,
Nought conceal'd her bosom shining;
Through the parting of her hair,
Floating darkly downward there,

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare:

(1) "From this, all is beautiful to

'He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there."" Gifford.-L. E.

(2) I must here acknowledge a close though unintentional resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an unpub. lished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called Christabel. It was not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited; and the MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undonbtedly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that he will not longer delay the publication of a production,

Once she raised her hand on high;

It was so wan, and transparent of hue,
You might have seen the moon shine through.

XXI.

"I come from my rest to him I love best,
That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd.
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall;
Sought thee in safety through foes and all.
"Tis said the lion will turn and flee

From a maid in the pride of her purity;
And the Power on high, that can shield the good
Thus from the tyrant of the wood,

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well
From the hands of the leaguering infidel.

I come and if I come in vain,
Never, oh never, we meet again!
Thou hast done a fearful deed

In falling away from thy fathers' creed:
But dash that turban to earth, and sign
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine;
Wring the black drop from thy heart,
And to-morrow unites us no more to part."

"And where should our bridal couch be spread?
In the midst of the dying and the dead?
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name.
None, save thou and thine, I've sworn,
Shall be left upon the morn:

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,
Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot.
There thou yet shalt be my bride,

When once again I've quell'd the pride
Of Venice; and her hated race

Have feit the arm they would debase
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those
Whom vice and envy made my foes."

Upon his hand she laid her own—
Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone,
And shot a chillness to his heart,

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold;
But never did clasp of one so dear
Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers, long and white,
Froze through his blood by their touch that night.
The feverish glow of his brow was gone,
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,
As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue,
So deeply changed from what he knew:

to which I can only add my mite of approbation to the applause of far more competent judges. [The following are the lines in Christabel which Lord Byron had unintention. ally imitated:

"The night is chill, the forest bare,
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's check-
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,

On the topmost twig that looks at the sky."-L. E.] (3) "And its thrilling glance," etc. Gifford.-L. E.

Fair but faint-without the ray

Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day;
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath,
And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,
And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,
Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, (1)
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
From the shadowy wall where their images frown; (2)
Fearfully flitting to and fro,

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.

"If not for love of me be given

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,— Again I say that turban tear From off thy faithless brow, and swear Thine injured country's sons to spare, Or thou art lost; and never shalt seeNot earth-that's past-but heaven or me. If this thou dost accord, albeit A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, That doom shall half absolve thy sin, And Mercy's gate may receive thee within: But pause one moment more, and take The curse of Him thou didst forsake; And look once more to heaven, and see Its love for ever shut from thee. There is a light cloud by the moon"Tis passing, and will pass full soonIf, by the time its vapoury sail Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, Thy heart within thee is not changed, Then God and man are both avenged: Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill."

-(3)

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high
The sign she spake of in the sky;
But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside
By deep interminable pride.

(1) In the MS.

"Like a picture that magic had charm'd from its frame,
Lifeless but life-like, and ever the same."-L. E.

(2) In the summer of 1803, when in his sixteenth year, Lord Byron, though offered a bed at Annesley, used at first to return every night to sleep at Newstead; alleging as a reason, that he was afraid of the family pictures of the Chaworths; that he fancied "they had taken a grudge to him on account of the duel," Mr. Moore thinks it may possibly have been the recollection of these pictures that suggested to him these lines.-L. E.

(3) I have been told that the idea expressed in this and the five following lines has been admired by those whose approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not original-at least not mine; it may be found much better expressed in pages 182-3-4 of the English version of Vathek I forget the precise page of the French), a work to which I have before referred; and never recur to, or read, without a renewal of gratification.-[The following is the passage:Deluded prince !' said the Genius, addressing the Caliph, to whom Providence hath confided the care of innumerable subjects; is it thus that thou fulfillest thy mission? Thy crimes are already completed; and art thou

This first false passion of his breast
Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest.
He sue for mercy! He dismay'd
By wild words of a timid maid!
He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save
Her sons, devoted to the grave!
No-though that cloud were thunder's worst,
And charged to crush him-let it burst!
He look'd upon it earnestly,
Without an accent of reply;

He watch'd it passing; it is flown:
Full on his eye the clear moon shone,
And thus he spake " Whate'er my fate,

I am no changeling-'tis too late:
The reed in storms may bow and quiver,
Then rise again; the tree must shiver.
What Venice made me I must be,
Her foe in all, save love to thee:
But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!"
He turn'd, but she is gone!

Nothing is there but the column-stone.

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? He saw not-he knew not-but nothing is there.

XXII.

The night is past, and shines the sun
As if that morn were a jocund one. (4)
Lightly and brightly breaks away
The Morning from her mantle grey,

And the Noon will look on a sultry day.(5)
Hark to the trump, and the drum,

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,
And the clash, and the shout, "They come! they come!"
The horse-tails (6) are pluck'd from the ground, and
the sword

From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman,

Strike your tents, and throng to the van;
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain,

That the fugitive may flee in vain,

[word.

When he breaks from the town; and none escape,
Aged or young, in the Christian shape;
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass,
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. (7)
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane;

now hastening to thy punishment? Thou knowest that beyond those mountains Eblis and his accursed dives hold their infernal empire; and, seduced by a malignant phantom, thou art proceeding to surrender thyself to them! This moment is the last of grace allowed thee: give back Nouronahar to her father, who still retains a few sparks of life: destroy thy tower, with all its abominations: drive Carathis from thy councils: be just to thy subjects: respect the ministers of the prophet: compensate for thy impieties by an exemplary life; and, instead of squandering thy days in voluptuous indulgence, lament thy crimes on the sepulchres of thy ancestors. Thou beholdest the clouds that obscure the sun at the instant he recovers his splendour, if thy heart be not changed, the time of mercy assigned thee will be past for ever."-L. E.]

(4) "Leave out this couplet." Gifford.-L. E.

(5) "Strike out-And the Noon will look on a sultry day." G.-L. E.

(6) The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a pacha's standard. (7) Omit

"While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass,
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass."

Gifford.-L. E.

White is the foam of their champ on the bit:
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before: (1)
Forms in his phalanx each janizar;

Alp at their head; his right arm is bare,
So is the blade of his scimitar;

The khan and the pachas are all at their post;
The vizier himself at the head of the host.
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on;
Leave not in Corinth a living one-

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls.
God and the prophet-Alla Hu!

Up to the skies with that wild halloo !
"There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale;
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail?
He who first downs with the red cross may crave (2)
His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!"
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ;
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear,
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire :-
Silence-bark to the signal-fire!

XXIII.

As the wolves, that headlong go

On the stately buffalo,

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar,

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore,

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die:

Thus against the wall they went,

Thus the first were backward bent; (3)
Many a bosom, sheathed in brass,
Strew'd the earth like broken glass,
Shiver'd by the shot, that tore

The ground whereon they moved no more:
Even as they fell, in files they lay,
Like the mower's grass at the close of day,
When his work is done on the levell'd plain;
Such was the fall of the foremost slain. (4)
XXIV.

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash,
From the cliffs invading dash

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow,
Till white and thundering down they go,
Like the avalanche's snow

On the Alpine vales below;

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,

Corinth's sons were downward borne

By the long and oft-renew'd

Charge of the Moslem multitude.

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,
Heap'd by the host of the infidel,

Hand to hand, and foot to foot:
Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter, or for victory,
Mingle there with the volleying thunder,
Which makes the distant cities wonder

(1) "And crush the wall they have shaken before." G.-L. E. (2) "He who first downs with the red-cross may crave," etc. "What vulgarism is this! He who lowers,-or plucks down,'" etc. Gifford.-L. E.

(3) "Thus against the wall they bent,

Thus the first were backward sent."

G.-L.E.

(4) "Such was the fall of the foremost train." G.-L. E. (5) "There stood a man," etc. G.-L.E.

How the sounding battle goes,
If with them, or for their foes;

If they must mourn, or may rejoice

In that annihilating voice,

Which pierces the deep hills through and through With an echo dread and new:

You might have heard it, on that day,

O'er Salamis and Megara,

(We have heard the hearers say,) Even unto Piræus' bay.

XXV.

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt,
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt;
But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun,
And all but the after carnage done.
Shriller shrieks now mingling come
From within the plunder'd dome :
Hark to the haste of flying feet,

That splash in the blood of the slippery street;
But here and there, where 'vantage ground
Against the foe may still be found,
Desperate groups, of twelve or ten,
Make a pause, and turn again-

With banded backs against the wall,

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall.

There stood an old man (5)-his hairs were white,

But his veteran arm was full of might:

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray,
The dead before him, on that day,

In a semicircle lay;

Still he combated unwounded,
Though retreating, unsurrounded.
Many a scar of former fight
Lurk'd (6) beneath his corslet bright;
But of every wound his body bore,
Each and all had been ta'en before:
Though aged, he was so iron of limb,
Few of our youth could cope with him;
And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay,
Outnumber'd his thin hairs (7) of silver grey.
From right to left his sabre swept:
Many an Othman mother wept
Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd (8)
His weapon first in Moslem gore,

Ere his years could count a score.

Of all he might have been the sire (9)

Who fell that day beneath his ire:

For, sonless left long years ago,

His wrath made many a childless foe;
And since the day, when in the strait (10)
His only boy had met his fate,
His parent's iron hand did doom
More than a human hecatomb. (11)
If shades by carnage be appeased,
Patroclus' spirit less was pleased
Than his, Minotti's son, who died
Where Asia's bounds and ours divide.

(6) "Lurk'd," a bad word-say "Was hid." G.-L. E (7) "Outnumber'd his hairs," etc., G.-L. E.

(8) Sons that were unborn, when he dipp'd." G.-L.E. 19) "Bravo!-this is better than King Priam's fifty sons. Gifford.-L. E.

(10) In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles,

between the Venetians and Turks.

(11) "There can be no such thing; but the whole of this is poor, and spun out." G.-L. E.