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Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed,

And mourn'd above his turban-stone,*
That heart hath 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 pale :
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 galo,

Tell him thy tale !
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall !
That fearful moment when he left the cave

Thy heart grew chill :
He was thy hope_thy joy—thy love-thine all
And that last thought on him thou couldst not sare

Sufficed to kill ;
Burst forth in one wild cry-and all was still.

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave!
Ah! happy ! but of life to lose the worst !
That grief—though deep-though fatal-was thy first !
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse!
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 itand 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.-B.

The death-song of the Turkish women. The “ silent slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public.-B.

1 “I came to the place of my birth and cried, 'The friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo answered, Where are they?''L-From an Arabic M& The above quotation (trom which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familias

XXVIII.
Within the place of thousand tombs

That shine beneath, while dark abovo,
The sad but living cypress glooms,

And withers not, though branch and lead
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 vain
To-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.*

every reader-it is given in the first annotation (p. 67) of "The Pleasures of Memory a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous; but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur.-B. ." And airy tongues that syllable men's names."-MILTOX. For a belief that the souls

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'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-fix'd pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Next orn '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 i*
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 tals !

:

TO GENEVRA.

I.
THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,

And the wan lustre of thy features--caught

From contemplation—where serenely wrought, Seems sorrow's softness charm'd from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That—but I know thy blessèd bosom fraught

With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent),

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn —
Such seem'st thou—but how much more excellent !
With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

December 17, 1813.

of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven (see Orford's “Reminiscences"), and many other instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, belioving her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly --For this anec dote, see Orford's “ Letters."--B.

II.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe;

And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow : And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes—but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,

And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,

The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ;
At once sach majesty with sweetness blending,

I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

THE CORSAIR.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

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 Ezel 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 at. tempted 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 octosyllabic 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 ns from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popu. lar 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 are probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those

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