Go, seek them where the surges sweep Their burden round Sigmum'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; Then levell'd with the wave-1 The bird that tears that prostrate form Had bled or wept to see him die, Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, And mourn'd above his turban stone,2 That heart hath burst-that eye was closedYea-closed before his own! XXVII. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! Thy destined lord is come too late : The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear? 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 grew chill: He was thy hope-thy joy-thy love-thine allAnd that last thought on him thou couldst not save Sufficed to kill; Burst forth in one wild cry-and all was still. Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 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 !" 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, 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 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: And longer yet would weep and wake, And some have been who could believe, 1["While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron saw the body of a man who had been executed by being cast into the sea, floating on the stream to and fro with the trembling of the water, which gave to its arms the effect of scaring away several sea-fowl that were hovering to devour. This incident has been strikingly depicted."-GALT.) 2 A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only. The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid com. plaint in public. "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, "The friends of any youth, where are they? and an Echo answered, Where are they?"-From an Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader: it is given in the first unnotation, 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. i 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 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 1 " And airy tongues that syllable men's names."--MILTON. For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of bird, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew moter window in the shape of a raven, (see Orford's RemiLiscences,) and many other instances, bring this superstition Learer home. The most singular was the whim of a Woreeter lady, who, believing 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 anecdote, see Orford's Letters. *The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, is all parity and loveliness. Never was a faultless character more delicately or more justly delineated. Her piety, her intelligence, her strict sense of duty, and her undeviating love of truth, appear to have been originally blended in her mind, rather than inculcated by education. She is always natural, always attractive, always affectionate; and it must be ad itted that her affections are not unworthily bestowed. Selun, while an orphan and dependent, is never degraded by calamity when better hopes are presented to him, his oyant spirit rises with his expectations: he is enterprising, Wat no more rashness than becomes his youth; and when disappointed in the success of a well-concerted project, he meets, with intrepidity, the fate to which he is exposed through his own generous forbearance. To us, "The Bride of Aby los" appears to be, in every respect, superior to The Giaour, though, in point of diction, it has been, perhaps, less warmly admired. We will not argue this point, bat will simply observe, that what is read with ease is generally read with rapidity; and that many beauties of style which escape observation in a simple and connected narrate, would be forced on the reader's attention by abrupt and perplexing transitions. It is only when a traveller is obliged to stop on his journey, that he is disposed to examine and admire the prospect.-GEORGE ELLIS.] 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 mag 3 [ The Bride,' such as it is, is my first entire composition of any length, (except the Satire, and be d-d to it,) for the Giaour' is but a string of passages, and Childe Harold' is, and I rather think always will be, unconcluded. It was published on Thursday, the 2d of December; but how it is liked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not, is no fault of the public, against whom I have no complaint. But I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be to the most important reader; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination; from selfish regrets to vivid recollections; and recalled me to a country replete with the brightest and darkest, but always most lively colors of my memory."-Byron Diary, Dec. 5, 1813.] "["The Corsair" was begun on the 18th, and finished on the 31st of December, 1813; a rapidity of composition which, taking into consideration the extraordinary beauty of the poem, is, perhaps, unparalleled in the literary history of the country. Lord Byron states it to have been written con amore, and very much from existence." In the original MS. the chief female character was called Francesca, in whose person the author meant to delineate one of his acquaintance; but while the work was at press, he changed the name to Medora.] [This political allusion having been objected to by a friend, Lord Byron sent a second dedication to Mr. Moore, with a request that he would "take his choice." It ran as follows: nificent 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 are probably like, since they are unfavorable; 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 "O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, and with my most hearty admiration of your talents, and delight in your conversation, you are already acquainted. In availing myself of your friendly permission to inscribe this poem to you. I can only wish the offering were as worthy your acceptance, as your regard is dear to "Yours, most affectionately and faithfully, "BYRON."] 1[After the words "Scott alone." Lord Byron had inserted, in a parenthesis-"He will excuse the Mr.'-we do not say Mr. Cæsar."] [It is difficult to say whether we are to receive this passage as an admission or a denial of the opinion to which it refers; but Lord Byron certainly did the public injustice, if he supposed it imputed to him the criminal actions with which many of his heroes were stained. Men no more expected to meet in Lord Byron the Corsair, who knew himself a villain." than they look for the hypocrisy of Kebama on the shores of the Derwent Water, or the profligacy of Marmion on the banks of the Tweed.-SIR WALTER SCOTT.] The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole of the Egean 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. Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head; When those who win at length divide the prey, II. Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, ! Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand; | Select the arms-to each his blade assign, "Now form and follow me!"-the spoil is won. III. "A sail!—a sail!"-a promised prize to Hope! Blow fair, thou breeze!-she anchors ere the dark. Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. She walks the waters like a thing of life, IV. Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings; The sails are furl'd; and anchoring round she swings: V. The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd: VI. "Where is our chief? for him we bear report- But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, He read the scroll-" My tablets, Juan, harkWhere is Gonsalvo?" "In the anchor'd bark." "There let him stay-to him this order bearBack 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 gone. 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 armorer 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, 1 [In the features of Conrad, those who have looked upon Lord Byron will recognise some likeness; and the ascetic regimen which the noble poet himself observed, was no less marked in the preceding description of Conrad's fare. To what are we to ascribe the singular peculiarity which induced an author of such talent, and so well skilled in tracing the darker impressions which guilt and remorse leave on the human character, so frequently to affix features peculiar to himself to the robbers and corsairs which he sketched with a pencil as forcible as that of Salvator? More than one answer may be returned to this question; nor do we pretend to say which is best warranted by the facts. The practice may arise from a temperament which radical and constitutional melancholy had, as in the case of Hamlet, predisposed to identify its owner with scenes of that deep and amazing interest which arises from the stings of conscience contending with the stubborn energy of pride, and delighting to be placed in supposed situations of guilt and danger, as some men love instinctively to tread the giddy edge of a precipice, or, holding by some frail twig, to stoop forward over the abyss into which the dark torrent discharges itself. Or, it may be that these disguises were assumed capriciously, as a man might choose the cloak, poniard, and dark lantern of a bravo, for his disguise at a masquerade. Or, feeling his own powers in painting the sombre and the horrible, Lord Byron assumed in his fervor the very semblance of the characters he describes; like an actor who presents on the stage at once his own person and the tragic character with which for the time he is invested. Nor, is it altogether incompatible with his character to be 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, The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, lieve that, in contempt of the criticisms which, on this account, had attended "Childe Harold," he was determined to show to the public how little he was affected by them, and how effectually it was in his power to compel attention and respect, even when imparting a portion of his own likeness and his own peculiarities, to pirates and outlaws.-SIR WALTER SCOTT.] 2 That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature, I shall attempt to prove by some historical coincidences which I have met with since writing "The Corsair :”— "Eccelin, prisonnier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfermoit dans un silence menaçant, il fixoit sur la terre son regard feroce, i et ne donnoit point d'essor à sa profonde indignation. De toutes partes cependant les soldats et les peuples accouroient; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie universelle éclatoit de toutes partes. Eccelin étoit d'une petite taille mais tout l'aspect de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un soldat. Son langage étoit amer, son déportement superbe-et par son seul regard, il faisoit trembler les plus hardis."-Sismondi, tome iii. p. 219. Again, Gisericus, (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the conqueror of both Carthage and Rome,) staturâ mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus, luxuriæ contemptor, irâ turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes providentissimus," &c. &c.—Jornandes de Rebus Geticis, c. 33. I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in countenance my Giaour and Corsair. |