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The Haram's languid years of listless ease
Are well resign'd for cares-for joys like these:
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove,
Unnumber'd perils-but one only love!
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay,
Though fortune frown or falser friends betray.
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill,
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still!
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown;
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own;
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight,
Blend every thought, do all-but disunite!
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide;
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside:
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd
By fatal Nature to man's warring kind:
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests
cease!

He makes a solitude, and calls it-peace!

I like the rest must use my skill or strength,
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length:
Power sways but by division-her resource
The blest alternative of fraud or force!
Ours be the last; in time deceit may come
When cities cage us in a social home:

There ev'n thy soul might err-how oft the heart
Corruption shakes which peril could not part!
And woman, more than man, when death or woe,
Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low,
Sunk into the lap of luxury will shame-
Away suspicion I-not Zuleika's name!
But life is hazard at the best; and here
No more remains to win, and much to fear.
Yes, fear!-the doubt, the dread of losing thee,
By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree.
That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale,
Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail:
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest,
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest.
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath
charms;

Earth-sea alike-our world within our arms!
Ay-let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck,
So that those arms cling closer round my neck:
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee!
The war of elements no fears impart

To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art:
There lie the only rocks our course can check;
Here moments menace-there are years of
wreck!

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape!

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape.

Few words remain of mine my tale to close; Of thine but one to waft us from our foes: Yea-foes-to me will Giaffir's hate decline? And is not Osman, who would part us, thine?

"His head and faith from doubt and death
Return'd in time my guard to save;
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave
From isle to isle I roved the while :
And since, though parted from my band
Too seldom now I leave the land,
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do,
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too:
I form the plan, decree the spoil,
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil.

But now too long I've held thine ear;

Time presses, floats my bark, and here
We leave behind but hate and fear.
To-morrow Osman with his train
Arrives-to-night must break thy chain:
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey,
Perchance his life who gave thee thine,
With me this hour away-away!

But yet, though thou art plighted mine,
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow,
Appall'd by truths imparted now,
Here rest I-not to see thee wed:
But be that peril on my head!"

XXII.
Zuleika, mute and motionless,
Stood like that statue of distress,
When, her last hope for ever gone,
The mother harden'd into stone;
All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niobè.
But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Essay'd to speak, or look reply,
Beneath the garden's wicket porch
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch!
Another-and another--and another-
"Oh! fly-no more-yet now my more
than brother!"

Far, wide, through every thicket spread,
The fearful lights are gleaming red;
Nor these alone-for each right hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand.
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau, shining steel;
And last of all, his sabre waving,
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:
And now almost they touch the cave-
Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave?

XXIII. Dauntless he stood-"Tis come-soon past

One kiss, Zuleika-'tis my last :

But yet my band not far from shore May hear this signal, see the flash; Yet now too few-the attempt were rash: No matter-yet one effort nore." Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; His pistol's echo rang on high, Zuleika started not, nor wept,

Despair benumbed her breast and eye!-
"They hear me not, or if they ply
Their oars,'tis but to see me die;
That sound hath drawn my foes more
nigh.

Then forth my father's scimitar,
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war!

Farewell, Zuleika !-Sweet retire;
Yet stay within-here linger safe,
At thee his rage will only chale.
Stir not-lest even to thee perchance
Some erring blade or ball should glance
Fear'st thou for him ?-may I expire
If in this strife I seek thy sire!
No-though by him that poison pour'd;
No-though again he call me coward!
But tamely shall I meet their steel?
No-as each crest save his may feel!"

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand
Already at his feet hath sunk

The foremost of the prying band,
A gasping head, a quivering trunk:

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Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel,
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel,
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset,
To where the strand and billows met:
There as his last step left the land,
And the last death-blow dealt his hand-
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look

For her his eye but sought in vain?
That pause, that fatal gaze he took,

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. Sad proof, in peril and in pain, How late will Lover's hope remain ! His back was to the dashing spray; Behind, but close, his comrades lay, When at the instant hiss'd the ball"So may the foes of Giaffir fall!" Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? Whose bullet through the night-air sang, Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? "Tis thine-Abdallah's Murderer! The father slowly rued thy hate, The son hath found a quicker fate: Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, The whiteness of the sea-foam troublingIf aught his lips essay'd to groan, The rushing billows choked the tone!

XXVI.

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; Few trophies of the fight are there: The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Are silent; but some signs of fray

That strand of strife may bear. And fragments of each shiver'd brand; Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand

May there be mark'd; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat; And tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep There lies a white capote !

'Tis rent in twain-one dark-red stain
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain:

But where is he who wore ?
Ye! who would o'er his relics weep,
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sigæum's steep,

And cast on Lemnos' shore:
The sea-birds shriek above the prey,
O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,

His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,

Then levell'd with the wave-
What recks it, though that corse shall lie
Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm;
The only heart, the only eye

Had bled or wept to see him die,
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed,
And mourn'd above his turban-stone,"
That heart had burst-that eye was closed-
Yea-closed before his own!

XXVII.

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! And woman's eye is wet-man's cheek is palc: Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race,

Thy destined lord is come too late: He sees not-ne'er shall see-thy face! Can he not hear

The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear?t Thy handmaids weeping at the gate,

The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, Tell him thy tale!

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall!

That fearful moment when he left the cave Thy heart chill: grew

He was thy hope-thy joy-thy love-thine all

And that last thought on him thou couldst

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And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies!

The worm that will not sleep-and never dies; Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light,'

That winds around, and tears the quivering heart!

Ah, wherefore not consume it-and depart ! Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief!

Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread;

By that same hand Abdallah-Selim-bled. Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, She, whom thy Sultan had but seen to wed, Thy daughter's dead!

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam,

The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream.

What quench'd its ray? the blood that thou hast shed!

Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: "Where is my child?"-an Echo answers"Where?"

A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only.

The death-song of the Turkish women.

XXVIII.

Within the place of thousand tombs
That shine beneath, while dark above
The sad but living cypress glooms,

And withers not, though branch and leaf Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,

Like early unrequited Love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Ev'n in that deadly grove-
A single rose is shedding there

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale:
It looks as planted by Despair-

So white-so faint-the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high;

And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky

May wring it from the stem-in vainTo-morrow sees it bloom again! The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears;

For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unshelter'd by a bower;

Nor droops, though spring refuse her
shower,

Nor woos the summer beam:
To it the livelong night there sings

A bird unseen-but not remote:
Invisible his airy wings,

But soft as harp that Houri strings
His long entrancing note!

It were the Bulbul; but his throat

Though mournful, pours not such a strain: For they who listen cannot leave The spot, but linger there and grieve,

As if they loved in vain!
And yet so sweet the tears they shed,
'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread,
They scarce can bear the morn to break
That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well!

But when the day-blush bursts from high,
Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe,
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,
Yet harsh be they that blame),
That note so piercing and profound
Will shape and syllable its sound
Into Zuleika's name.

'Tis from her cypress' summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word;
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth
That white rose takes its tender birth.
There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed-the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep-fixed pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell,
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave;
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said,
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:
And hence extended by the billow,
'Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!"
Where first it lay, that mourning flower
Hath flourish'd, flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's
tale.

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MY DEAR MOORE,-I dedicate to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky: but wildness, tenderness, and originality are part of your national claim of Oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians.

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable?-Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but, for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award of "gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but perhaps the best adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I confess, it is the measure most after my own heart. Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius. In blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure, certainly: but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present, and will be of my future regret.

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so. If I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of "drawing from self," the pictures arc probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than "The Giaour," and perhaps-but no-I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever 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, his obedient servant,

BYRON.

January 2, 1814.

1.

CANTO THE FIRST.

nessun maggior dolore,

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria,

"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!

-DANTE

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,

These are our realms, no limits to their sway-With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;

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!
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot
please-

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 spirit 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 enamour'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,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes

control.

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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 messt,
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
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,
And all obey and few inquire his will;
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.

III.

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