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,

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

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!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway-
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?

The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences; but the whole of the gean isles are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.-B.

+ Byron's lameness made the water his element. Had he been a devoted hunter, or a soldier, his apostrophes would have been quite as warm.

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.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regrets supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!

II.

Such were the notes that from the Pirates' isle,
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while;
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,

They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand;
Select the arms-to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;
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,
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;
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'or seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,
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 hoard 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.

"A sail!-a sail!

III.

-a promised prize to Hope!
Her nation-flag-how speaks the telescope?
No prize, alas!-but yet a welcome sail:
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.
Yes-she is ours-a home-returning bark-

Blow fair, thou breeze !-she anchors ere the dark.
Already doubled is the cape-our bay

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.
How gloriously her gallant course she goes!
Her white wings flying-never from her foes-
She walks the waters like a thing of life,

And seems to dare the elements to strife.

Who would not brave the battle-fire-the wreck-
To move the monarch of her peopled deck?

IV.

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings:

The sails are furl'd; and anchoring round she swings;
And gathering loiterers on the land discern

Her boat descending from the latticed stern.
"Tis mann'd-the oars keep concert to the strand,
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.

Hail to the welcome shout!-the friendly speech!
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;
The smile, the question, and the quick reply,
And the heart's promise of festivity!

V.

The tidings spread, and gath'ring grows the crowd;
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud,
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard-
Friends'-husbands'-lovers' names in each dear word:

"Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success-
But shall we see them ?-will their accents bless?
From where the battle roars-the billows chafe-
They doubtless boldly did-but who are safe?
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise,
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!"

VI.

"Where is our chief? for him we bear report-
And doubt that joy-which hails our coming-short;
Yet thus sincere 'tis cheering, though so brief;
But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief:

Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return,
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn."
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way,

To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay,
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming,
And freshness breathing from each silver spring,
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst,
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst;
From crag to cliff they mount-Near yonder cave,
What lonely straggler looks along the wave?
In pensive posture leaning on the brand,
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?
""Tis he-'tis Conrad-here-as wont-alone;
On-Juan!-on-and make our purpose known.
The bark he views-and tell him we would greet
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet:
We dare not yet approach-thou know'st his mood,
When strange or uninvited steps intrude."

VII.

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ;-
He spake not-but a sign express'd assent.
These Juan calls-they come-to their salute
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute.

"These letters, Chief, are from the Greek-the spy,
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:

Whate'er his tidings, we can well report

Much that"- "Peace, peace!"-he cuts their prating short Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each

Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech:

They watch his glance with many a stealing look,
To gather how that eye the tidings took;
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside,
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride,
He read the scroll-"My tablets, Juan, hark-
Where is Gonsalvo?"

"In the anchor'd bark."
"There let him stay-to him this order bear.
Back to your duty-for my course prepare:
Myself this enterprise to-night will share.”
“To-night, Lord Conrad?'

"Ay! at set of sun:
The breeze will freshen when the day is done.
My corslet-cloak-one hour-and we are gonc.
Sling on thy bugle-see that free from rust
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust;
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand,
And give its guard more room to fit my hand.
This let the Armourer with speed dispose ;
Last time it more fatigued my arm than foes:
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired,
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired."

VIII.

They make obeisance and retire in haste,
Too soon to seek again the watery waste:
Yet they repine not-so that Conrad guides,
And who dare question aught that he decides?
That man of loneliness and mystery,

Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain?
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind
The power of thought-the magic of the Mind!
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill,
That moulds another's weakness to its will:

Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.
Such hath it been-shall be-beneath the sun
The many still must labour for the one!
'Tis Nature's doom-but let the wretch who toils,
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils.
Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains,
How light the balance of his humbler pains!

IX.

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,
Demons in act, but gods at least in face,
In Conrad's form seems little to admire,
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire:
Robust but not Herculean-to the sight

No giant frame sets forth his common height;
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,
Saw more than inarks the crowd of vulgar men;
They gaze and marvel how-and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale
The sable curls in wild profusion veil;

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien,
Still seems there something he would not have seen:
His features' deepening lines and varying hue
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view,
As if within that murkiness of mind
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined;
Such might it be-that none could truly tell-
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell.
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy
The full encounter of his searching eye;
He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,