Then again in conflict mixing,
Clashing swords, and spears transfixing,
Interchanged the blow and thrust,
Hurling warriors in the dust.
Street by street, and foot by foot,
Still Minotti dares dispute
The latest portion of the land
Left beneath his high command;
With him, aiding heart and hand,
The remnant of his gallant band.
Still the church is tenable,

Whence issued late the fated ball
That half avenged the city's fall,
When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell:
Thither bending sternly back,
They leave before a bloody track;
And, with their faces to the foe,
Dealing wounds with every blow,
The chief, and his retreating train,
Join to those within the fane;
There they yet may breath awhile,
Shelter'd by the massy pile.

XXIX.

Brief breathing-time! the turban'd host,
With adding ranks and raging boast,
Press onwards with such strength and heat,
Their numbers balk their own retreat;
For narrow the way that led to the spot
Where still the Christians yielded not;
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try
Through the massy column to turn and fly;
They perforce must do or die.

They die; but ere their eyes could close,
Avengers o'er their bodies rose;
Fresh and furious, fast they fill

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still;

And faint the weary Christians wax
Before the still renew'd attacks:
And now the Othmans gain the gate;
Still resists its iron weight,

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot,
From every crevice comes the shot;
From every shatter'd window pour
The volleys of the sulphurous shower:

But the portal wavering grows and weak-
The iron yields, the hinges creak-
It bends-it falls-and all is o'er;
Lost Corinth may resist no more!

Darkly, sternly, and all alone,
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone:
Madonna's face upon him shone,
Painted in heavenly hues above,
With eyes of light and looks of love;
And placed upon that holy shrine
To fix our thoughts on things divine,
When pictured there, we kneeling see
Her, and the boy-God on her knee,
Smiling sweetly on each prayer
To heaven, as if to waft it there.
Still she smiled; even now she smiles,
Though slaughter streams along her aisles:
Minotti lifted his aged eye,

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh,
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby;
And still he stood, while, with steel and flame,
Inward and onward the Mussulman came.

ΧΧΧΙ.

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone Contain'd the dead of ages gone; Their names were on the graven floor, But now illegible with gore;

The carved crests, and curious hues
The varied marble's veins diffuse,

Were smear'd, and slippery-stain'd, and strown
With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown:
There were dead above, and the dead below
Lay cold in many a coffin'd row;
You might see them piled in sable state,
By a pale light through a gloomy grate;
But War had enter'd their dark caves,
And stored along the vaulted graves
Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread
In masses by the fleshless dead:
Here, throughout the siege, had been
The Christians' chiefest magazine;
To these a late form'd train now led,
Minotti's last and stern resource
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.

The foe came on, and few remain
To strive, and those must strive in vain:
For lack of further lives, to slake
The thirst of vengeance now awake,
With barbarous blows they gash the dead,
And lop the already lifeless head,
And fell the statues from their niche,
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich,
And from each other's rude hands wrest
The silver vessels saints had bless'd
To the high altar on they go;
Oh, but it made a glorious show!
On its table still behold

The cup of consecrated gold;
Massy and deep, a glittering prize,
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes:
That morn it held the holy wine,

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine,

Which his worshippers drank at the break of day
To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray.
Still a few drops within it lay;

And round the sacred table glow
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row,
From the purest metal cast;

A spoil-the richest, and the last.

XXXIII.

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd,

When old Minotti's hand

Touch'd with the torch the train

"T is fired!

Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,
The turban'd victors, the Christian band,
All that of living or dead remain,
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane,

In one wild roar expired!

The shatter'd town-the walls thrown down-.
The waves a moment backward bent-
The hills that shake, although unrent,

As if an earthquake pass'd-
The thousand shapeless things all driven
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven,
By that tremendous blast-
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er
On that too long afflicted shore:
Up to the sky like rockets go
All that mingled there below:
Many a tall and goodly man,
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span,
When he fell to earth again
Like a cinder strew'd the plain:
Down the ashes shower like rain;

Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles
With a thousand circling wrinkles;

Some fell on the shore, but, far away,
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay;
Christian or Moslem, which be they?
Let their mothers see and say!
When in cradled rest they lay,
And each nursing mother smiled
On the sweet sleep of her child,
Little deem'd she such a day
Would rend those tender limbs away.
Not the matrons that them bore
Could discern their offspring more;
That one moment left no trace
More of human form or face
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone:
And down came blazing rafters, strown
Around, and many a falling stone,
Deeply dinted in the clay,

All blacken'd there and reeking lay.
All the living things that heard
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd:
The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled,
And howling left the unburied dead;

The camels from their keepers broke;
The distant steer forsook the yoke-
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain,
And burst his girth, and tore his rein;
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh,
Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill
Where echo roll'd in thunder still;
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,10
Bay'd from afar complainingly,
With a mix'd and mournful sound,
Like crying babe, and beaten hound:
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast,
The eagle left his rocky nest,

And mounted nearer to the sun,
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun;
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak,
And made him higher soar and shriek-
Thus was Corinth lost and won!

Note 1, page 132, line 11.

The Turcoman hath left his herd.

Note 6, page 135, line 37.

I must here acknowledge a close, though unintention

Note 2, page 132, line 69.

Coumourgi-he whose closing scene.

Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Peloponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mortally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain of Carlowitz,) in Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died of his wounds next day. His last order was the decapitation of General Breuner, and some other German prisoners; and his last words, "Oh that I could thus serve all the Christian dogs!" a speech and act not unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition and unbounded presumption: on being told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was a great general," he said, "I shall become a greater, and at his expense."

unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called "Christabel." It was not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited; and the MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly per tains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that he will not longer delay the publication of a production, of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the applause of far more competent judges.

Note 7, page 136, line 22.

There is a light cloud by the moon.

I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose approba tion is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not original

at least not mine; it may be found much better ex pressed in pages 182-3-4 of the English version of Vathek," (I forget the precise page of the French,) work to which I have before referred, and never recur to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. Note 8, page 136, line 67. The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword. The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pasha's standard. Note 9, page 137, line 45.

And since the day, when in the strait. In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Dardanelles between the Venetians and the Turks.

Note 10, page 139, line 31.
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry.

I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard these animals; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruíns, and follow

armies.

January 22, 1816.

THE following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of Brunswick."-I am aware, that in modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such sub¡ects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramaists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the continent. The following extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical.

"Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty; if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of justice of a parent."-Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470, new edition.

1.

IT is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,

And in the heaven that clear obscure,

So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.'

II.

But it is not to list to the waterfall
That Parisina leaves her hall,
And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light
That the lady walks in the shadow of night;
And if she sits in Este's bower,

"Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower-
She listens but not for the nightingale-
Though her car expects as soft a tale.
There glides a step through the foliage thick,
And her cheek grows pale-and her heart beats
quick.

There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves:

And what unto them is the world beside,
With all its change of time and tide?
Its living things-its earth and sky-
Are nothing to their mind and eye.
And heedless as the dead are they
Of aught around, above, beneath;
As if all else had pass'd away,

They only for each other breathe;
Their very sighs are full of joy

So deep, that did it not decay, That happy madness would destroy

The hearts which feel its fiery sway: Of guilt, of peril, do they deem

In that tumultuous tender dream?
Who that have felt that passion's power,
Or paused or fear'd in such an hour?
Or thought how brief such moments last?
But yet-they are already past!
Alas! we must awake before

We know such vision comes no more.

That dreaming sigh, and warm caress,
For such as he was wont to bless;
And could in very fondness weep
O'er her who loves him even in sleep.

VI.

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart,
And listen'd to each broken word:
He hears-Why doth Prince Azo start,
As if the Archangel's voice he heard?
And well he may-a deeper doom
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb,
When he shall wake to sleep no more,
And stand the eternal throne before.
And well he may-his earthly peace
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease.
That sleeping whisper of a name
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame.
And whose that name? that o'er his pillow
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow,
Which rolls the plank upon the shore,
And dashes on the pointed rock
The wretch who sinks to rise no more,-
So came upon his soul the shock.
And whose that name? 't is Hugo's,-his-
In sooth he had not deem'd of this!-
Tis Hugo's,-he, the child of one
He loved his own all-evil son-
The offspring of his wayward youth,
When he betrayed Bianca's truth,
The maid whose folly could confide
In him who made her not his bride.
VII.

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath,
But sheath'd it ere the point was bare—
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe,

He could not slay a thing so fair-
At least, not smiling-sleeping-there-
Nay more: he did not wake her then,
But gazed upon her with a glance

Which, had she roused her from her trance, Had frozen her sense to sleep againAnd o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. She spake no more-but still she slumber'dWhile, in his thought, her days are number'd.

VIII.

And with the morn he sought, and found,
In many a tale from those around,
The proof of all he fear'd to know,
Their present guilt, his future wo;
The long-conniving damsels seek

To save themselves, and would transfer
The guilt-the shame-the doom-to her:
Concealment is no more-they speak
All circumstance which may compel
Full credence to the tale they tell:
And Azo's tortured heart and ear
Have nothing more to feel or hear.

IX.

He was not one who brook'd delay:
Within the chamber of his state,
The chief of Este's ancient sway

Upon his throne of judgment sate; His nobles and his guards are there,— Before him is the sinful pair;

Both young-and one how passing fair!
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand,
Oh, Christ! that such a son should stand
Before a father's face!

Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire,
And hear the sentence of his ire,

The tale of his disgrace!

And yet he seems not overcome, Although, as yet, his voice be dumb.

X.

And still, and pale, and silently

Did Parisina wait her doom;
How changed since last her speaking eye

Glanced gladness round the glittering room Where high-born men were proud to waitWhere Beauty watch'd to imitate

Her gentle voice-her lovely mienAnd gather from her air and gait The graces of its queen' Then, had her eye in sorrow wept, A thousand warriors forth had leapt, A thousand swords had sheathless shone, And made her quarrel all their own. Now, what is she? and what are they? Can she command, or these obey? All silent and unheeding now, With downcast eyes and knitting brow, And folded arms, and freezing air, And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, Her knights, and dames, her court-is there And he, the chosen one, whose lance Had yet been couch'd before her glance Who-where his arm a moment freeHad died or gain'd her liberty; The minion of his father's bride,He, too, is fetter'd by her side; Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim Less for her own despair than him: Those lids o'er which the voilet vein Wandering, leaves a tender stain, Shining through the smoothest white That e'er did softest kiss inviteNow seem'd with hot and livid glow To press, not shade, the orbs below; Which glance so heavily and fill, As tear on tear grows gathering still.

ΧΙ.

And he for her had also wept,

But for the eyes that on him gazed
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept;

Stern and erect his brow was raised.
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd,
He would not shrink before the crowd;
But yet he dared not look on her:
Remembrance of the hours that were-
His guilt-his love-his present state-
His father's wrath-all good men's hate-
His earthly, his eternal fate-

And her's,-oh, her's!-he dared not throw
One look upon that deathlike brow!
Else had his rising heart be'ray'd
Remorse for all the wreck it made.

XII.

And Azo spake:-" But yesterday
I gloried in a wife and son;
That dream this morning pass'd away
Ere day declines, I shall have none
My life must linger on alone;
Well, let that pass,-there breathes not one
Who would not do as I have done:

Those ties are broken-not by me;

Let that too pass;-The doom's prepared.

Hugo, the priest awaits on thee,

And then-thy crime's reward! Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, Before its evening stars are metLearn if thou there canst be forgiven; Its mercy may absolve thee yet.

But here, upon the earth beneath,
There is no spot where thou and I
Together, for an hour, could breathe:
Farewell! I will not see thee die-
But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head-
Away! I cannot speak the rest:
Go! woman of the wanton breast
Not I, but thou his blood dost shed:
Go! if that sight thou canst outlive,
And joy thee in the life I give."

XIII.

And here stern Azo hid his face-
For on his brow the swelling vein
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again;
And therefore bow'd he for a space,
And pass'd his shaking hand along
His eye, to veil it from the throng;
While Hugo raised his chained hands,
And for a brief delay demands
His father's ear: the silent sire
Forbids not what his words require.

"It is not that I dread the death-
For thou hast seen me by thy side
All redly through the battle ride,
And that not once a useless brand
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand,
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine,
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine:

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath,
A gift for which I thank thee not;
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot,
Her slighted love and ruin'd name,
Her offspring's heritage of shame;
But she is in the grave, where he,
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be.
Her broken heart--my sever'd head-
Shall witness for thee from the dead
How trusty and how tender were
Thy youthful love-paternal care.

"T is true, that I have done thee wrong

But wrong for wrong:-this, deem'd thy bride,
The other victim of thy pride,

Thou know'st for me was destined long.
Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms-
And with thy very crime-my birth,
Thou taunted'st me-as little worth;
A match ignoble for her arms,
Because, forsooth, I could not claim
The lawful heirship of thy name,
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne:

Yet, were a few short summers mine,
My name should more than Este's shine
With honours all my own.

I had a sword-and have a breast

That should have won as haught a crest
As ever waved along the line

Of all these sovereign sires of thine.
Not always knightly spurs are worn
The brightest by the better born;
And mine have lanced my courser's flank
Before proud chiefs of princely rank,
When charging to the cheering cry
Of 'Este and of Victory!'

I will not plead the cause of crime,
Nor sue thee to redeem from time
A few brief hours or days that must
At length roll o'er my reckless dust;—
Such maddening moments as my past,
They could not and they did not, last—
Albeit my birth and name be base,
And thy nobility of race

Disdain'd to deck a thing like mo—

Yet in my lineaments they trace
Some features of my father's face,
And in my spirit-all of thee.

From thee-this tamelessness of heart-
From thee-nay, wherefore dost thou start?~~
From thee in all their vigour came

My arm of strength, my soul of flame-
Thou didst not give me life alone,
But all that made me more thine own.
See what thy guilty love hath done!
Repaid thee with too like a son!
I am no bastard in my soul,
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control
And for my breath, that hasty boon
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon,
I valued it no more than thou,
When rose thy casque above thy brow
And we, all side by side, have striven,
And o'er the dead our coursers driven :
The past is nothing-and at last
The future can but be the past;
Yet would I that I then had died:

For though thou work'dst my mother's
And made thy own my destined bride,
I feel thou art my father still;
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree,
'Tis not unjust, although from thee.
Begot in sin, to die in shame,
My life begun and ends the same:
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son,
And thou must punish both in one.
My crime seems worst to human view,
But God must judge between us too!"

XIV.

He ceased-and stood with folded arms,
On which the circling fetters sounded;
And not an ear but felt as wounded,
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd,
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd
Till Parisina's fatal charms

Again attracted every eye

Would she thus hear him doom'd to die!
She stood, I said, all pale and still,
The living cause of Hugo's ill:
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide,
Not once had turn'd to either side-
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,
But round their orbs of deepest blue
The circling white dilated grew-
And there with glassy gaze she stood
As ice were in her curdled blood;
But every now and then a tear

So large and slowly gather'd slid
From the long dark fringe of that fai ad

It was a thing to see, not hear!

And those who saw, it did surprise,
Such drops could fall from human eyes.
To speak she thought-the imperfect note
Was choked within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan
Her whole heart gushing in the tone.
It ceased-again she thought to speak,
Then burst her voice in one long shriek,
And to the earth she fell like stone
Or statue from its base o'erthrown,
More like a thing that ne'er had life-
A monument of Azo's wife,-
Than her, that living guilty thing,
Whose every passion was a sting,
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear
That guilt's detection and despair.