The Haram's languid years of listless ease He makes a solitude, and calls it-peace! I like the rest must use my skill or strength, There ev'n thy soul might err-how oft the heart Earth-sea alike-our world within our arms! To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art: 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 But now too long I've held thine ear; Time presses, floats my bark, and here But yet, though thou art plighted mine, XXII. Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 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!- Then forth my father's scimitar, Farewell, Zuleika !-Sweet retire; One bound he made, and gain'd the sand The foremost of the prying band, Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, For her his eye but sought in vain? 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 But where is he who wore ? And cast on Lemnos' shore: His head heaves with the heaving billow; Then levell'd with the wave- The bird that tears that prostrate form Had bled or wept to see him die, 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 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 And withers not, though branch and leaf Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, Like early unrequited Love, Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 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 Nor woos the summer beam: A bird unseen-but not remote: But soft as harp that Houri strings 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 longer yet would weep and wake, But when the day-blush bursts from high, And some have been who could believe, 'Tis from her cypress' summit heard, 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 "O'ER the glad waters of the dark-blue sea,* -DANTE Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, These are our realms, no limits to their sway-With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise; Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And where the feebler faint-can only feel- No dread of death-if with us die our foes- Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. control. Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, more. With these he mingles not but to command; And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, "Now form and follow me!"-the spoil is won III. |