Sidor som bilder


But this was taught me by the dove,
To die and know no second love.
This lesson yet hath man to learn,
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:
The bird that sings within the brake,
The swan that swims upon the

One mate, and one alone, will take.
And let the fool still prone to range,
And sneer on all who cannot change,
Partake his jest with boasting boys;
I envy not his varied joys,

But deem such feeble, heartless man,
Less than yon solitary swan,
Far, far beneath the shallow maid
He left believing and betrayed. 1179
Such shame at least was never mine
Leila! each thought was only thine!
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
My hope on high - my all below.
Earth holds no other like to thee,
Or, if it doth, in vain for me:

For worlds I dare not view the dame
Resembling thee, yet not the same.
The very crimes that mar my youth,
This bed of death-attest my truth!
'Tis all too late thou wert, thou

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"And she was lost and yet I breathed,

But not the breath of human life: A serpent round my heart was wreathed,

And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time- abhorred all placeShuddering I shrank from Nature's face, Where every hue that charmed before The blackness of my bosom wore. The rest thou dost already know, 1200 And all my sins, and half my woe. But talk no more of penitence; Thou seest I soon shall part from hence And if thy holy tale were true,

The deed that's done canst thou undo? Think me not thankless — but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.1

The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, that It it could have no hopes from the reader. may be sufficient to say that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the patient), and was delivered in the usual tone of all orthodox preachers.

My soul's estate in secret guess:
But wouldst thou pity more, say less.
When thou canst bid my Leila live, 1210
Then will I sue thee to forgive;
Then plead my cause in that high place
Where purchased masses proffer grace.
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung
From forest-cave her shrieking young,
And calm the lonely lioness:

But soothe not - mock not my distress!


"In earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers, I had - Ah! have I now a friend! To him this pledge I charge thee send, Memorial of a youthful vow;

I would remind him of my end:

Though souls absorbed like mine allow

Brief thought to distant Friendship's claim,

Yet dear to him my blighted name. 'Tis strange· - he prophesied my doom, And I have smiled I then could smile ---

When Prudence would his voice assume, And warn - I recked not what

the while:

1231 But now Remembrance whispers o'er Those accents scarcely marked before. Say- that his bodings came to pass, And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth: Tell him

unheeding as I was, Through many a busy bitter scene Of all our golden youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried To bless his memory -ere I died; 1241 But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name; And what have I to do with Fame? I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like


And what than Friendship's manly tear May better grace a brother's bier? 1250 But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him - what thou dost behold!

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"Tell me no more of Fancy's gleam, No, Father, no, 'twas not a dream; Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watched, and wished to weep; But could not, for my burning brow 1261 Throbbed to the very brain as now: I wished but for a single tear, As something welcome, new, and dear: I wished it then, I wish it still; Despair is stronger than my will. Waste not thine orison despair Is mightier than thy pious prayer: I would not, if I might, be blest; I want no Paradise, but rest. 'Twas then I tell thee


1270 - Father!

I saw her; yes, she lived again,
And shining in her white symar,1
As through yon pale grey cloud the star
Which now I gaze on, as on her,
Who looked and looks far lovelier;
Dimly I view its trembling spark;
To-morrow's night shall be more dark;
And I, before its rays appear,
That lifeless thing the living fear. 1280
I wander Father! for my soul
Is fleeting towards the final goal.
I saw her Friar! and I rose
Forgetful of our former woes;
And rushing from my couch, I dart,
And clasp her to my desperate heart;
I clasp what is it that I clasp?
No breathing form within my grasp,
No heart that beats reply to mine-
Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine! 1290
And art thou, dearest, changed so much
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?
Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold,
I care not -so my arms enfold
The all they ever wished to hold.
Alas! around a shadow prest
They shrink upon my lonely breast;

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They told me wild waves rolled above
The face I view the form I love;
They told me -'twas a hideous tale!
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 1310
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave,
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er
This brow that then will burn no more;
Or place them on my hopeless heart:
But, Shape or Shade! whate'er thou art,
In mercy ne'er again depart!

Or farther with thee bear my soul Than winds can waft or waters roll! *





"Such is my name, and such my tale. Confessor! to thy secret ear 1320 I breathe the sorrows I bewail,

And thank thee for the generous tear This glazing eye could never shed. Then lay me with the humblest dead, And, save the cross above my head, Be neither name nor emblem spread, By prying stranger to be read, Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread."

The circumstance to which the above story relates was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's supposed infidelity; he asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night! One of the guards who was present informed me that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so sudden a "wrench from all we know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and interpolations by the translator will be easily distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery, and I regret that my memory

He passed nor of his name and race He left a token or a trace,

1330 Save what the Father must not say Who shrived him on his dying day: This broken tale was all we knew Of her he loved, or him he slew.



"Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted."
BURNS [Farewell to Nancy].








has retained so few fragments of the original. For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, and, as Mr Weber justly entitles it, sublime tale," the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials; some of his incidents are to be found in the Bibliothèque Orientale; but for correctness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations, and bears such marks of originality that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it; his "Happy Valley" sil not bear a comparison with the "Hall of Eblis." [The notes to Vathek to which Byron was indebted were not written by Beckford, but by his editor and annotator, Samuel Henley.] [The Bride of Abydos was begun and finished early in November, 1813, and published November 29, 1813.]


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"Pacha! to hear is to obey."
No more must slave to despot say
Then to the tower had ta'en his way:
But here young Selim silence brake,

First lowly rendering reverence meet; And downcast looked, and gently spake,

Still standing at the Pacha's feet: 50 For son of Moslem must expire, Ere dare to sit before his sire! "Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide

My sister, or her sable guide
Know for the fault, if fault there be,
Was mine- then fall thy frowns on me!
So lovelily the morning shone,

That let the old and weary sleep I could not; and to view alone

The fairest scenes of land and deep, With none to listen and reply


To thoughts with which my heart beat high

Were irksome for whate'er my mood, In sooth I love not solitude;

I on Zuleika's slumber broke,

And, as thou knowest that for me

Soon turns the Haram's grating key,
Before the guardian slaves awoke
We to the cypress groves had flown,
And made earth, main, and heaven our
There lingered we, beguiled too long
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song;
Till I, who heard the deep tambour 2
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour,
To thee, and to my duty true,
Warned by the sound, to greet thee

But there Zuleika wanders yet
Nay, Father, rage not— nor forget
That none
can pierce that


But those who watch the women's tower."


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the Pacha said


"Son of a slave" "From unbelieving mother bred, Vain were a father's hope to see Aught that beseems a man in thee. Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow,

And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, Must pore where babbling waters flow, And watch unfolding roses blow. Would that yon Orb, whose matin glow Thy listless eyes so much admire, Would lend thee something of his fire! Thou, who would'st see this battle



By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; {
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall
Before the dogs of Moscow fall,
Nor strike one stroke for life and death
Against the curs of Nazareth!

Go let thy less than woman's hand
Assume the distaff - not the brand. 100
But, Haroun ! to my daughter
And hark

of thine own head take

If thus Zuleika oft takes wing-
Thou see'st yon bow- it hath a string!"

Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. Tambour. Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, and twilight. [The "tambour is a kind of mandoline. It is the large kettledrum (nagaré) which sounds the hours.]


No sound from Selim's lip was heard, At least that met old Giaffir's ear, But every frown and every word Pierced keener than a Christian's sword.

"Son of a slave! - reproached with fear!

Those gibes had cost another dear. 110 Son of a slave! and who my Sire?" Thus held his thoughts their dark career;

And glances ev'n of more than ire Flash forth, then faintly disappear. Old Giaffir gazed upon his son

And started; for within his eye He read how much his wrath had done; He saw rebellion there begun:

"Come hither, boy-what, no reply? I mark thee and I know thee too; 120 But there be deeds thou dar'st not do: But if thy beard had manlier length, And if thy hand had skill and strength, I'd joy to see thee break a lance, Albeit against my own perchance." As sneeringly these accents fell, On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed: That eye returned him glance for glance,

And proudly to his Sire's was raised, Till Giaffir's quailed and shrunk

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But hark! - I hear Zuleika's voice; Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: She is the offspring of my choice;

Oh! more than ev'n her mother dear, With all to hope, and nought to fear My Peri! ever welcome here! 151 Sweet as the desert fountain's wave To lips just cooled in time to save

Such to my longing sight art thou; Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine More thanks for life, than I for thine, Who blest thy birth and bless thee now."

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