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Tsere vain to paint to what his feelings grew-
It ev'n were doubtful if their victim knew.
There is a war, a chaos of the mind,
When all its elements convulsed-combined
Le dark and jarring with perturbed force,
And gaashing with impenitent Remorse ;
That juggling fiend—who never spake before-
i But cries “ I warnd thee!" when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe-rebel-the weak alone repent !
Er'n in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all-all that self reveals,
So single passion, and no ruling thought
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought;
Bat the wild prospect when the soul reviews
| All rushing through their thousand avenues,

Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret,
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset;
Toe joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven;
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern reflection each a crime ;
The withening sense of evil unreveald,
Not cankering less because the more conceald-
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre—the naked heart
Barea with its buried woes, till Pride awake,
To watch the mirror from the soul—and break.
Ay-Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all,
All-all-before-beyond—the deadliest fall.
Each has some fear, and he who least betrays,
The only hypocrite deserving praise :
Vot the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies;
Bat he who looks on death—and silent dies.
So streld by pondering o'er his far career,
He half-way meets him should he menace near !

He slept in calmest seeming—for his breath
Was hush'd so deep-Ah! happy if in death!
He slept-Who o'er his placid slumber bends?
His foes are gone—and here he hath no friends ;
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ?
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face !
Its white arm raised a lamp-yet gently hid,
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain,
And once unclosed—but once may close again.
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair,
And auburn waves of gemm’d and braided hair;
With shape of fairy lightness naked foot,
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mnie-
Through guards and dunnest night how came it there?
Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare?
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare !
She could not sleep-and while the Pacha's rest
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest,
She left his side-his signet-ring she bore,
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before-
And with it, scarcely question’d, won her way
Through drowsy guards that must that sig obey.
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows,
Their eyes had envied Courad his repose ;
And chill and nodding at the turret door,
They stretch their listless liinbs, and watch no more:
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring,
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring.

She gazed in wonder, “Can he calmly sleep,
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?
And mine in restlessness are wandering here-
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear?
True—'tis to him my life, and more, I owe,
And me and mine he spared froin worse than wo:
"Tis late to think--but soft-his slumber breaks-
How heavily he sighs:-he starts awakes!"

In the high chamber of his highest tower

He raised his head-and dazzled with the light, Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power.

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: His palace perish'd in the flame—this fort

He moved his hand-the grating of his chain Ceatain d at once his captive and his court.

Too harshly told him that he lived again. Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, “ What is that form ? if not a shape of air, His foe, if vanquishid, had but shared the same : Methinks, my jailer’s face shows wond'rous fair!" Aloue he sate-in solitude had scann'd His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd: One thought alone he could not-dared not meet “ Pirate! thou know'st me not-but I am one, *Ob, how these tidings will Medora greet ?"

Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ;
Then—only then-his clanking hands he raised, Look on me—and remember her, thy hand
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed: Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band.
Bat soon he found—or feign'd—or dream'd relief, I come through darkness and I scarce know why-
Lad smiled in self-derision of his grief,

Yet not to hurt-I would not see thee die.”
· And now come torture when it will-or may
More need of rest to nerve me for the day!"
This said, with languor to his mat he crept,

“ If so, kind lady! thine the only eye And, whatsse'er his visions, quickly slept.

That would not here in that gay hope delight: Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, Theirs is the chance—and let them use their right For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done : But still I thank their courtesy or thine, And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, That would confess me at so fair a shrine!" She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. Que hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'dDieguised - discover'd — conquering ta'en - con- Strange though it seem-yet with extremest grief demn'd

Is link'd a minh-it doth not bring relief A chief on land-an outlaw on the deep

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, Destroying-saving-prison'd—and asleep!

And smiles in bitterness—but still it smles;

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And sometimes with the wisest and the best,

Oft must my soul the question undergo, Till even the scaffold' echoes with their jest !

01_ Dost thou love ?! and burn to answer, No! Yet not the joy to which it seems akin

Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain, It may deceive all hearts, save that within.

And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now

But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, A laughing wildness half unbent his brow:

And hide from one-perhaps another there. And these his accents had a sound of mirth,

He takes the hand I give not-nor withholdAs if the last he could enjoy on earth;

Its pulse nor check d—nor quicken’d-calmly cold :
Yet 'gainst his nature--for through that short life, And when resign’d, it drops a lifeless weight
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. From one I never loved enough to hate.

No warmth these lips return by his impress'd,

And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. “ Corsair! thy doom is named—but I have power

Yes—had I ever proved that passion's zeal, To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.

The change to hatred were at least to feel : Thee would I spare—nay more-would save thee now, But still—he goes unmourn'd-returns unsoughtBut this-time-hope-nor even thy strength allow;

And oft when present-a

-absent from my thought. But all I can, I will : at least, delay

Or when reflection comes and come it mustThe sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust;
More now were ruin-ev'n thyself were loth

I am his slave-but, in despite of pride,
Tho vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 'T'were worse than bondage to become his bride.

Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!

Or seek another and give mine release, “ Yes !-loth indeed :—my soul is nerved to all,

But yesterday—I could have said, to peace ! Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall:

Yesif unwonted fondness now I feign, Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope,

Remember-captive! 'tis to break thy chain ; Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope:

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe; Unfit to vanquish–shall I meanly fly,

To give thee back to all endear'd below, The one of all my band that would not die?

Who share such love as I can never know. Yet there is one—to whom my memory clings, Farewell--morn breaks—and I must now away: Till to those eyes her own wild softness springs.

'Twill cost me dear-but dread no death to-day!" My sole resources in the path I trod Were these-my bark--my sword-my love-my

The last I left in youth-he leaves me now

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart,
And Man but works his will to lay me low.

And bow d her head, and turn'd her to depart, I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;

And was she here? and is he now alone ? It is enough-I breathe—and I can bear.

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? My sword is shaken from the worthless hand

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, That might have better kept so true a brand;

That starts at once-bright-pure—from Pity's mine, My bark is sunk or captive--but my love

Already polish'd by the hand divine !
For her in sooth my voice would mount above :
Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind-

Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear-
And this will break a heart so more than kind,

In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!
And blight a form—till thine appear'd, Gulnare ! That weapon of her weakness she can wield,
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair.”

To save, subdue-at once her spear and shield:
Avoid it-Virtue ebbs and Wisdom erts,

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! “ Thou lov'st another then ?-but what to me

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly? Is this— tis nothing—nothing e'er can be :

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. But yet-thou lov'st--and-Oh! I envy thoso

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven; Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose,

By this-how many lose not earth—but heaven! Who never feel the void—the wandering thought That sighs o'er visions such as mine hath wrought.” And seal their own to spare some wanton's wo.

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, “ Lady-methought thy love was his, for whom

XVI. This arm redeem'd theo from a fiery tomb."

'Tis morn--and o'er his alter'd features play

The beams-without the hope of yesterday.
“My love stern Seyd's! Oh-No-No-not my love What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing,
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing,
To meet his passion—but it would not be.

By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt;
I felt-I feel-love dwells with—with the free. While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,
I am a slave, a favor'd slave at best,

Chill-wet-and misty round each stiffen'd limb, To share his splendor, and seem very blest!

Refreshing earth—reviving all but him !

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1 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she rer that it was too slender to trouble the heads. man much.” During one part of the French Revolution,

it became a fashion to leave some "mot" as a legacy: and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book a considerable size.

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Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown—where gentler ocean seems to smile.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Vot, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But oge unclouded blaze of living light !
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old Egina's rock, and Idra's isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Thongh there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis !
Their ázare arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark nis gay course, and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behiad his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts to thee?
Oh! who can look along thy native sea,
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale,
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ?
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set,
Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget ?
Not he-whose heart nor time nor distance frees,
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades!
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain,
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain-
Would that with freedom it were thine again!

On such an ere, his palest beam he cast,
When-Athens! here thy Wisest look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet-not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still ;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes :
Gloon o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phæbus never frown'd before ;
But bere he sank below Cithæron's head,

сар of wo was quaif'd—the spirit fled; The soul of him who scorn’d to fear or flyWho lived and died, as none can live or die !

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The Sun hath sunk-and, darker than the night,
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height,
Medora's heart--the third day's come and gone-
With it ho comes not--sends not--fuithless one!
The wind was fair though light; and storms were
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet (none.
His only tidings that they had not met!
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale
Had Conrad waited for that single sail.
The night breeze freshens-sho that day had pass'd
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast;
Sadly she sate-on high--Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wanderd, heedless of the spray
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn’d away:
She saw not--felt not this—nor dared depart,
Nor deem'd it cold-her chill was at her heart;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense!
It came at last--a sad and shatter'd boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding--all most wretched-these the few
Scarce knew they low escapedthis all they knew.
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear
To trust their accents to Medora's ear.
She saw at once, yet sık not-trembled not-
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,

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Bat lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,

queen of night asserts her silent reign.'
No murky vapor, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ;
With comice glimmering as the moonbeams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And, bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblen sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meck Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The express saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,“

The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, -Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished stream at all.

rish printed, poem ; but they were written on the spot, na the Sjining of loll, and-I scarce know why-the reader

B[Of the brilliant skies and variegated landscapes of

Greece every one has formed to himself a general notion, Es ticue their appearance here-if he can. (See post, - Care of Minerva.j

from having contemplated them through the lazy atmo

sphere of some prose narration; but, in Lord Byron's poetry, : Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset,

every image is distinct and glowing, as if it were illumina. the bour of execution,) notwithstanding the entreaties of ted by its native sunshine ; and, in the figures which people lus diepes to wait till the sun went down.

the landscape, we behold not only the general form and * The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own costume, but the countenance, and the attitude, and the entry : the days in winter are longer, but in summer of play of features and of gesture accompanying, and indiKorter daration.

cating, the sudden impulses of momentary feelings. The * The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the palm is

magic of coloring by which this is effected is, perhaps, the sibeat the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple

most striking evidence of Lord Byron's talent.--GEORGE Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes.


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Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray-
That deem'd not till they found their energy.

Watch’d-follow'd-he were then an easier prey ; While yet was Hope — they soften’d— Autter'd- But once cut off-the remnant of his band wept

Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." All lost—that softness died not--but it slept ; And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, “With nothing left to love - there's naught to “Gulnare !—if for each drop of blood a gem dread."

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; 'Tis more than nature's; like the burning might If for each hair of his a massy mino Delirium gathers from the fever's height.

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ;

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream “ Silent you stand--nor would I hear you tell Of wealth were here—that gold should not redoom! What-speak notbreathe not--for I know it well— It had not now redeem'd a single hour; Yet would I ask-almost my lip denies

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; The-quick your answer—tell me where he lies.” And, thirsting for revenge, 1 ponder still

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." “ Lady! we know not-scarce with life we fled; But here is one denies that he is dead:

“ Nay, Seyd !-I seek not to restrain thy rage, He saw him bound; and bleeding—but alivo."

Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ;

My thoughts were only to secure for theo
She heard no further—'twas in vain to strive-
So throbb’d each vein--each thought-till then with- Disabled, shorn of half his might and band,

His riches--thus released, he were not free:
Her own dark soul-these words at once subdued :

His capture could but wait thy first command."
She totters--falls--and senseless had the wave
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave;
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,

“ His capture could ! —and shall I then resign

One day to him—the wretch already mine ?
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies :
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,

Release my foe !-at whose remonstrance !-thine !

Fair suitor :—to thy virtuous gratitude, Raise-fan-sustain-till life returns anew;

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood,
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare,
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report

No doubt-regardless if the prize were fair,
The tale too tedious—when the triumph short.

My thanks and praise alike are due-now hear!
I have a counsel for thy gentler car:

I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard.
In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai -
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly?
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there

Thou need'st not answer—thy confession speaks, Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ;

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks; Whate'er his fate--the breasts he form’d and led, Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware : Will save him living, or appease him dead.

"Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! Wo to his foes! there yet survive a few,

Another word and—nay—I need no more. Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. Accursed was the moment when he bore

Thee from the flames, which better far-but-na V.

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woWithin the Harem's secret chamber satel

Now 'tis thy lord that warns--deceitful thing!
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing?
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell,

In words alone I am not wont to chafe :
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; Look to thyself—nor deem thy falsehood safe !"
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined
Surveys his brow--would soothe his gloom of mind;
While many an anxious glance her large dark eye

He rose--and slowly, sternly thence withdrew,
Sends in its idle search for sympathy,

Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu :

Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,"

Which frowns ne'er quell’d, nor menaces subdued ; But ily views his victim as he bleeds.

And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare!

When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. “Pacha! the day is thine ; and on thy crest

His doubts appear'd to wrong-nor yet she knew Sits Triumph-Conrad taken-fall’n the rest ! How deep the root from whence compassion grew His doom is fix'd-he dies: and well his fate

She was a slave—from such may captives claim Was earn'd-yet much too worthless for thy hato: A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; Methinks, a short release, for ransom told

Still half unconscious—heedless of his wrath, With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ;

Again she ventured on the dangerous path, Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard

Again his rage repellid_until arose Would that of this my Pacha were the lord !

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes!

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i [The whole of this section was added in the course of printing.)

9 The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are in number ninety-nine.

He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd
One pitying flash to mar the form it made:
His steel and impious prayer attract alike-
The storm rollid onward, and disdain’d to strike;
Its peal wax'd fainter-ceased-he felt alone,
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan !

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VI. Meanwhile-long anxious-weary-still—the same Rold day and night-his soul could never tameThis fearful interval of donbt and dread, When every hour might doom him worse than dead, When every step that echo'd by the gate Might entering lead where axe and stake await; When every voice that grated on his ear Might be the last that he could ever hear; Coald terror tamemthat spirit stern and high Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; Tras word-perhaps decay'd-yet silent bore That conflict, deadlier far than all before : The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, Leare scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; Bat bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, To pine, the prey of every changing mood; To gaze on thine own heart; and meditato Irrevocable faults, and coming fateToo late the last to shun-the first to mendTo count the hours that struggle to thine end, With not a friend to animate, and tell To other ears that death became thee well; Arcund thee foes to forge the ready lie, And blot life's latest scene with calumny; Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear; Bat deeply feels a single cry would shame, To valor's praise thy last and dearest claim; The life thou lear'st below, denied above By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; And more than doubtful paradise—thy heaven Oi earthly hope--thy loved one from thee riven. Sach were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain: And those sustain'd he-boots it well or ill ? Since not to sink beneath, is something still !

VIII. The midnight pass'd—and to the massy door A light step caine -it paused-it moved once moro; Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: 'Tis as his heart foreboded--that fair she! Whato'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; Yet changed since last within that cell she came, More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame: On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, Which spoke before her accents" Thou must die ! Yes, thou must die—there is but one resource, The last-the worst--if torture were not worse."

“ Lady! I look to none--my lips proclaim
What last proclaim'd they--Conrad still the same :
Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's liso to spare,
And change the sentence I deserve to bear ?
Well have I earn'd--nor here alone—the meed
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed.”
“Why should I seek? because--Oh! didst thou not
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ?
Why should I seek ?-hath misery made thee blind
To the fond workings of a woman's mind ?
And must I say? albeit my heart rebel
With all that woman feels, but should not tell-
Because-despite thy crimes—that heart is moved:
It feard thee - thank'd thee- pitied — madden'd-

Reply not, tell not now thy tale again,
Thou lov'st another-and I love in vain ;
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair,
I rush through peril which she would not dare.
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear,
Were I thine own-thou wert not lonely here :
An outlaw's spouse-and leave her lord to roam!
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ?
But speak not now-o'er thine and o'er my head
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread;
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free,
Receive this poniard—riso-and follow me!"
“Ay-in my chains ! my steps will gently tread,
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head!
Thou hast forgot-is this a garb for fight?
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?"

VII. The first day pass'd-he saw not her—GulnareThe second-third-and still she came not there; But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, Or else he had not seen another sun. The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night Care storm and darkness in their iningling might: On! how he listend to the rushing deep, That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep; And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, Paused by the roar of his own element ! Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, A long-known voice-alas! too vainly near! Lood sung the wind above; and, doubly loud, Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; | And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, To him more genial than the midnight star: Close to the glimmering grate he dragg’d his chain, And hoped that peril might not prove in vain.

“ Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard,
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward,
A single word of mine removes that chain :
Without some aid how here could I remain ?

11** By the war-I have a charge against you. As the Mr. Sotheby, Sept. 25, 1815.-The following are the lines in Treat Mr Dennis roared out on a similar occasion, By Mr. Sotheby's tragedy :G-, thet is my thunder!:-0 do I exclaim, This is my

" And I have leapt Dating" I alinde to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Perownia and the Empress, where the thought, and almost

In transport from my ffinty couch, to welcome

The thunder as it burst upon my roof;
Elpression, are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of the
Corsair.' ], however, do not say this to accuse you, but to

And beckond to the lightning, as it fash'd
EICEDI mysell from suspicion ; as there is a priority of six

And sparkled on these fetters." mnths publication on my part, between the appearance of Notwithstanding Lord Byron's precaution, the coincidence that composition and of your tragedies."-Lord Byron to in question was cited against him, some years after, in a

periodical journal.]

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