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That pale brow wildly wreathing round, And find them flown her empty nest.
As if the Gorgon there had bound The keenest pangs the wretched find
The sablest of the serpent-braid

Are rapture to the dreary void,
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd: The leafless desert of the mind,
For he declines the convent-oath,

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, Who would be doom'd to gaze upon But wears our garb in all beside;

A sky without a cloud or sun ? And, not from piety but pride,

Less hideous far the tempest's roar Gives wealth to walls that never heard Than ne'er to brave the billows more Of his one holy vow nor word.

Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, Lomark ye, as the harmony

A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, Peals louder praises to the sky,

'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, That livid cheek, that stony air

Unseen to drop by dull decay ;Of mix'd defiance and despair!

Better to sink beneath the shock Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! Else may we dread the wrath divine Made manifest by awful sign. If ever evil angel bore

“ Father! thy days have pass'd in peace, The form of mortal, such he wore: Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; By all my hope of sins forgiven,

To bid the sins of others cease, Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!” Thyself without a crime or care,

Save transient ills that all must bear,

Has been thy lot from youth to age; To love the softest hearts are prone, And thou wilt bless thee from the rage But such can ne'er be all his own;

Of passions fierce and uncontrollid,
Too timid in his woes to share,

Such as thy penitents unfold,
Too meek to meet, or brave despair; Whose secret sins and sorrows rest
And sterner hearts alone may feel

Within thy pure and pitying breast.
The wound that time can never heal.

My days, though few, have pass'd below The rugged metal of the mine

In much of joy, but more of woe; Must burn before its surface shine,

Yet still in hours of love or strife, Bat plunged within the furnace-flame,

I've 'scaped the weariness of life : It bends and melts—though still the same; Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, Then temper'd to thy want, or will, I loathed the languor of repose. Twill serve thee to defend or kill;

Now nothing left to love or hate, A breast-plate for thine hour of need,

No more with hope or pride elate, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ;

I'd rather be the thing that crawls But if a dagger's form bear,

Most noxious o’er a dungeon's walls,
Let those who shape its edge, beware!

Than pass my dull, unvarying days,
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, Condemn’d to meditate and gaze.
Can turn and tame the sterner heart ;

Yet, lurks a wish within my breast
From these its form and tone are ta’en,

For rest—but not to feel 'tis rest. And what they make it, must remain,

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;
But break-before it bend again.

And I shall sleep witho the dream
Of what I was, and would be still,

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : If solitude succeed to grief,

My memory now is but the tomb Release from pain is slight relief; Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: The vacant bosom's wilderness

Though better to have died with those Might thank the pang that made it less. Than bear a life of lingering woes. We loathe what none are left to share : My spirits shrunk not to sustain Even bliss—'twere woe alone to bear; The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; The heart once left thus desolate

Nor sought the self-accorded grave Must fly at last for ease-to hate.

Of ancient fool and modern kpave: It is as if the dead could feel

Yet death I have not fear'd to meet; The icy worm around them steal,

And in the field it had been sweet, And shudder, as the reptiles creep Had danger woo'd me on to move To revel o'er their rotting sleep,

The slave of glory, not of love. Without the power to scare away

I've braved it not for honour's boast : The cold consumers of their clay!

I smile at laurels won or lost;
It is as if the desert-bird,

To such let others carve their way,
Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream For high renown, or hireling-pay:
To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, But place again before my eyes
Sor mourns a life to them transferr'd, Aught that I deem a worthy prize :
Should rend her rash devoted breast, The maid I luve, the man I hate,

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And I will hunt the steps of fate,

A time that heeds nor pain nor toil;
To save or slay, as these require, One cry to Mahomet for aid,
Through rending steel, and rolling fire; One prayer to Alla all he made:
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one Ke knew and cross'd me in the fray-
Who would but do—what he hath done. I gazed upon him where he lay,
Death is but what the haughty brave,

And watch'd his spirit ebb away:
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; Though pierced like Pard by hunters' steel,
Then let Life go to him who gave:

He felt not half that now I feel.
I have not quail'd to danger's brow I search’d, but vainly search'd, to find
When high and happy-need I now? The workings of a wounded mind;

Each feature of that sullen corse

Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. " I loved her, friar! nay,

adored Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace But these are words that all can use- Despair upon his dying face! I proved it more in deed than word; The late repentance of that hour, There's blood upon that dinted sword,

When Penitence hath lost her power A stain its steel can never lose:

To tear one terror from the grave, 'Twas shed for her, who died for me, And will not soothe, and can not save. It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee, Nor midst my sins such act record ;

" The cold in clime are cold in blood, Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,

Their love can scarce deserve the name; For he was hostile to thy creed !

But mine was like the lava-flood The very name of Nazarene

That boils in Aetna's breast of flame. Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. I cannot prate in puling strain Ungrateful fool! since but for brands Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : Well wielded in some hardy hands, If changing cheek, and scorching vein, And wounds by Galileans given,

Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, The surest pass to Turkish heaven, If bursting heart, and mad'ning brain, For him his Houris still might wait

And daring deed, and vengeful steel, Impatient at the prophet's gate.

And all that I have felt, and feel, I loved her-love will find its way

Betoken love—that love was mine, Through paths where wolves would fear And shown by many a bitter sign.

'Tis true I could not whine nor sigh, And if it dares enough, 'twere hard

I knew but to obtain or die. If passion met not some reward

I die—but first I have possessid,
No matter how, or where, or why, And come what may, I have been blest.
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:

Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ?
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain No—reft of all, yet undismay'd
I wish she had not loved again.

But for the thought of Leila slain,
She died - I dare not tell thee how; Give me the pleasure with the pain,
But look-'tis written on my brow!

So would I live and love again. There read of Cain the curse and crime, I grieve, but not, my holy guide! In characters unworn by time :

For him who dies, but her who died : Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ;

She sleeps beneath the wandering waveNot mine the act, though I the cause.

Ah! had she but an earthly grave, Yet did he but what I had done

This breaking heart and throbbing head Had she been false to more than one. Should seek and share her narrow bed. Faithless to him, he gave the blow; She was a form of life and light, But true to me, I laid him low :

That, seen, became a part of sight; Howe'er deserved her doom might be, And rose where'er I turn'd mine eye, Her treachery was truth to me;

The Morning-star of Memory! To me she gave her heart, that all Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall; A spark of that immortal fire And I, alas! too late to save!

With angels shared, by Alla given, Yet all I then could give, I gave,

To lift from earth our low desire. Twas some relief, our foe a grave.

Devotion wafts the mind above, His death sits lightly; but her fate But Heaven itself descends in love; Has made me—what thou well may'st hate. A feeling from the Godhead caught, His doom was seal'd— he knew it well, To wean from self each sordid thought; Warn’d by the voice of stern Taheer, A Ray of him who formd the whole; Deep in whose darkly boding ear A Glory circling round the soul! The deathshot peal'd of murder near, I grant my love imperfect, all As filed the troop to where they fell! That mortals by the name miscall; He died top in the battle-broil,

Then deem it evil, what thou wilt,

to prey,

Bat say, oh say, hers was not guilt! Looks not to priesthood for relief.
She was my life's unerring light:

My soul's estate in secret guess :
That quench’d, what beam shall break my But wouldst thou pity more, say less.


When thou canst bid my Leila live, Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Then will I sue thee to forgive; Although to death or deadliest ill! Then plead my cause in that high place Why marvel ye, if they who lose Where purchased masses proffer grace. This present joy, this future hope, Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung No more with sorrow meekly cope;

From forest-cave her shrieking young, In phrensy then their fate accuse:

And calm the lonely lioness : In madness do those fearful deeds

But soothe not-mock not my distress ! That seem to add but guilt to woe? Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

“In earlier days, and calmer hours, Hath nought to dread from outward blow; When heart with heart delights to blend, Who falls from all he knows of bliss,

Where bloom my native valley's bowers Cares little into what abyss.

I had—Ah! have I now?-a friend! Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now

To him this pledge I charge thee send, To thee, old man, my deeds appear: Memorial of a youthful vow; I read abhorrence on thy brow,

I would remind him of my end : And this too was I born to bear!

Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, With havock have I mark'd my way:

Brief thought to distant friendship’s claiia,

Yet dear to him my blighted name. But this was taught me by the dove,

'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom, To die—and know no second love.

And I have siniled-I then could smile-This lesson yet hath man to learn,

When Prudence would his voice assume, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:

And warn-I reck'd not what, the white : The bird that sings within the brake,

But now remembrance whispers o'er
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.

Those accents scarcely mark'd before.

Say--that his bodings came to pass, And let the fool still prone to range, And he will start to hear their truth, And sneer on all who cannot change, And wish his words had not been sooth: Partake his jest with boasting boys; Tell him, unheeding as I was, I envy not his varied joys,

Through many a busy bitter scene But deem such feeble, heartless man,

Of all our golden youth had been, Less than yon solitary swan;

In pain, my faltering tongue had tried Far, far beneath the shallow maid

To bless his memory ere I died ; He left believing and betray'd.

But heaven in wrath would turn away, Sach shame at least was never mine

If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. Leila! each thought was only thine! I do not ask him not to blame, My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,

Too gentle he to wound my name; My hope on high-my all below.

And what have I to do with fame ? Earth holds no other like to thee,

I do not ask him not to mourn, Or if it doth, in vain for me:

Such cold request might sound. Jike scorn; For worlds I dare not view the dame

And what than friendship’s manly tear Resembling thee, yet not the same.

May better grace a brother's bier ? The very crimes that mar my youth,

But bear this ring, his own of old, This bed of death-attest my truth!

And tell him-what thou dost behold! Tis all too late-thou wert, thou art

The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The cherish'd madness of my heart !

The wrack by passion left behind,

A shrivellid scroll, a scatter'd leaf, “And she was lost-and yet I breathed, Seared by the autumn-blast of grief! But not the breath of human life: à serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my very thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorr'd all place,

“Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face, No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; Where every hue that charm'd before Alas! the dreamer first must sleep. The blackness of my bosom wore. I only watch’d, and wish'd to weep; The rest thou dost already know,

But could not, for my burning brow And all my sins, and half my woe. Throbb’d to the very brain as now: But talk no more of penitence;

I wish'd but for a single tear, Thon seest I soon shall part from hence: As something welcome, new, and dear : And if thy holy tale were true,

I wish'd it then, I wish it still, The deed that's done canst thou undo? Despair is stronger than my will. Think me not thankless--but this grief Waste not thine orison, despair

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Is mightier than thy pious prayer :

I saw him buried where he fell;
I would not, if I might, be blest; He comes not, for he cannot break
I want no paradise, but rest.

From earth; why then art thou awake ? 'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then They told me wild waves rollid above I saw her; yes, she lived again ;

The face I view, the form I love; And shining in her white symar,

They told me—'twas a hideous tale!
As through yon pale gray cloud the star I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail :
Which now I gaze on, as on her,

If true, and from thine ocean-cave
Who look'd and looks far lovelier; Thou coin'et to claim a calmer grave;
Dimly I view its trembling spark; Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er
To-morrow's night shall be more dark;

This brow that then will burn no more ; And I, before its rays appear,

Or place them on my hopeless heart : That lifeless thing the living fear. But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art, I wander, father; for my soul

In mercy ne'er again depart! Is fleeting towards the final goal.

Or farther with thee bear my soul,
I saw her, friar! and I rose

Than winds can waft or waters roll!
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?

“Such is my name, and such my tale. No breathing form within my grasp,

Confessor! to thy secret ear,
No heart that beats reply to mine,

I breathe the sorrows I bewail,
Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine! And thank thee for the generous tear
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, This glazing eye could never shed.
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? Then lay me with the humblest dead,
Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, And, save the cross above my head,
I care not; so my arms enfold

Be neither name nor emblem spread,
The all they ever wish'd to hold.

By prying stranger to be read
Alas! around a shadow prest,

Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread."
They shrink upon my lonely breast; He pass'd—nor of his name and race
Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands, Hath left a token or a trace,
And beckons with beseeching hands ! Save what the father must not say
With braided hair, and bright black eye- Who shrived him on his dying day:
I knew 'twas false—she could not die! This broken tale was all we knew
But he is dead! within the dell

Of her he loved, or him he slew.



Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted."




Where the rage of the vulture, the love of LORD HOLLAND,

the turtle, THIS TALE 18 INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTI- Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? MENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATE- Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams BYRON,

ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd

with perfume, CANTO 1.

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her

bloom ; Know ye the land where the cypress and Where the citron and olive are fairest of myrtle

fruit, Aro cmblems of deeds that are done in their And the voice of the nightingale never is clime?

mute ;

Where the tints of the earth, and the hues , In sooth I love not solitude;

of the sky, I on Zuleika's slumber broke,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And, as thou knowest that for me
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in die ; Soon tarns the Flaram's grating key,
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they Before the guardian slaves awoke


We to the cypress-groves had flown, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?! And made earth, main, and heaven our own! Tis the clime of the east; 'tis the land of ; There lingerd we, beguiled too long

the Sun

With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song; Can he smile on such deeds as his children Till I, who heard the deep tambour

have done? Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell To thee and to my duty true, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales Warn’d by the sound, to greet thee flew :

which they tell. But there Zuleika wanders yet

Nay, father, rage not-nor forget Begirt with many a gallant slave,

That none can pierce that secret bower

But those who watch the women's tower." Apparellid as becomes the brave, Awaiting each his Lord's behest To guide his steps, or guard his rest, “Son of a slave”--the Pacha said Old Giaffir sate in bis Divan :

“From unbelieving mother bred, Deep thought was in his aged eye: Vain were a father's hopes to see And though the face of Mussulman Aught that beseems a man in thee. Not oft betrays to standers by

Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, The mind withín, well skill'd to hide And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, All but unconquerable pride,

Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, Bis pensive cheek and pondering brow Must pore where babbling waters flow, Did more than he was wont avow.

And watch unfolding roses blow.
Would that yon orl, whose matin-glow

Thy listless eyes so much admire, "Let the chamber be clear’d.”—The train would lend thee something of his fire !


Thou, who would'st see this battlement "Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.” By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; With Giaffir is none but his only son, And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. Before the dogs of Moscow fall,

Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall "Haroun-when all the crowd that wait

Nor strike one stroke for life and death Are pass'd beyond the outer gate,

Against the curs of Nazareth! (Woe to the head whose eye beheld

Go, let thy less than woman's hand My child Zuleika's face unveil'd!)

Assume the distaff — not the brand. Hence, lead my daughter from her tower; But, Haroun :- to my daughter speed : Her fate is fix'd this very hour:

And hark---of thine own head take heedYet not to her repeat my thought; If thus Zuleika oft takes wingBy me alone be duty taught!”

Thou seest yon bow-it hath a string!”

*Pacha! to hear is to obey." No more must slave to despot say

No sound from Selim's lip was heard,

At least that met old Giaffir's ear,
Then to the tower had ta'en his way,
But here young Selim silence brake,

But every frown and every word

Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. First lowly rendering reverence meet; And downcast look'd, and gently spake,

“Son of a slave!- reproach'd with fear! Still standing at the Pacha's feet:

Those gibes had cost another dear.

Son of a slave!- and who my sire?" Par son of Moslem must expire,

Thus held his thoughts their dark carcer, Ere dare to sit before his sire!

And glances even of more than ire

Flash forth, then faintly disappear.
-Father! for fear that thou should'st chide Old Giaffir gazed upon his son
My sister, or her sable guide,

And started; for within his eye
know-for the fault, if fault there be, He read how much his wrath had donc;
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on mo- He saw rebellion there begun :
Se lovelily the morning shone,

“Come hither, boy - what, no reply? That-let the old and weary sleep-- I mark thee- and I know thee too; I could not; and to view alone

But there be deeds thou darest not do: The fairest scenes of land and deep, But if thy beard had manlier length, With none to listen and reply

And if thy hand had skill and strength, To thoughts with which my heart beat high I'd joy to see thee break a lance, Were irisome--for whate'er my mood, Albeit against my own perchance."

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