Another falls - but round him close And almost met the meeting wave: Oh! are they yet in time to save? His feet the foremost breakers lave; 550 His band are plunging in the bay, Their sabres glitter through the spray; Wet-wild unwearied to the strand They struggle-now they touch the land! They come 't is but to add to slaugh May there be mark'd; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat; And tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep There lies a white capote ! "T is rent in twain- one dark-red stain Ye, who would o'er his relics weep, And cast on Lemnos' shore. The bird that tears that prostrate form Hath only robb'd the meaner worm; The only heart, the only eye Had bled or wept to see him die, 610 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, And mourn'd above his turban stone, That heart hath burst that eye was Peace to thy broken heart and virgin grave! 640 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, shanie, 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 it and depart! 650 Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost 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. 660 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 700 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, And longer yet would weep and wake, 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. 'Tis from her cypress summit heard, That melts in air the liquid word: "T is from her lowly virgin earth That white rose takes its tender birth. 710 720 There late was laid a marble stone; Where first it lay that mourning flower Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour, 730 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale; As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale! THE CORSAIR A TALE -I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno. TASSO, Gerusalemme Liberata, canto x. [stanza 78]. 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 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 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 unfavourable; 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 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, Most truly, January 2, 1814. And affectionately, His obedient servant, CANTO THE FIRST BYRON. And they who loathed 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 regret 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 Such were the notes that from the Pirate's 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! carouse the brand; Select the arms to each his blade assign, And careless eye the blood that dims its shine; 50 this; How gloriously her gallant course she goes! Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan Her white wings flying-never from her amiss. 60 foes The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard Friends', husbands', lovers' names in each 'Oh! are they safe? we ask not of suc From where the battle roars, the billows chafe, They doubtless boldly did but who are safe? |