There late was laid a marble stone; They scarce can bear the morn to break That melancholy spell, And longer yet would weep and wake, He sings so wild and well! Eve saw it placed -the Morrow gone! But when the day-blush bursts from high For there, as Helle's legends tell, And some have been who could believe Tis from her cypress' summit heard, That white rose takes its tender birth. Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell; And there, by night, reclined, 'tis said TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. MY DEAR MOORE, DICATE to you the last production with I shall trespass on public patience, your indulgence, for some years; and that I feel anxious to avail myself latest and only opportunity of adornby pages with a name, consecrated by shaken public principle, and the most debted and various talents. While and ranks you among the firmest of her ts; while you stand alone the first of beards in her estimation, and Britain and ratifies the decree, permit one, We only regret, since our first acquainthas been the years he had lost before eremenced, to add the humble but sinsaffrage of friendship, to the voice of than one nation. It will at least prove y that I have neither forgotten the iration derived from your society, nor doned the prospect of its renewal, ver your leisure or inclination allows atone to your friends for too long nce. It is said among those friends, It truly, that you are engaged in the position of a poem whose scene will be and in the East; none can do those scenes ach justice. The wrongs of your own try, the magnificent and fiery spirit of was, 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 cloudy 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 sway- Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. us from the rough and barren rock on which | These are our realms, no limits to the 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 Whose soul would sicken o'er the heavin published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present and will be of my future regret. wave; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and eas Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure ca not please Oh, who can tell, save he whose hea hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wid The exulting sense-the pulse's maddenin play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackle way? That for itself can woo the approachi fight, And turn what some deem danger to deligh That seeks what cravens shun with mo than zeal, 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 acquaint- And where the feebler faint-can only feel ance should think the author better than Feel—to the rising bosom's inmost core, the beings of his imagining; but I cannot Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse-No dread of death-if with us die our foes ment, at some odd critical exceptions in Save that it seems even duller than repos the present instance, when I see several Come when it will-we snatch the life bards (far more deserving, I allow), in lifevery 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 and affectionately, January 2, 1814. CANTO I -nessun maggior dolore, "O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, When lost-what recks it by disease strife? Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, Cling to his couch, and sicken years awa Heave his thick breath, and shake his p sied head; Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feveri bed. While gasp by gasp he falters forth his so His corse may boast its urn and narrow ca grave: Ours are the tears, though few, sincere shed, When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres e For us even banquets fond regret supply And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song! Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, For the wild bird the busy springes set, With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise; No matter where-their chief's allotment Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. shore famed and fear'd—they ask and know no more. With these he mingles not but to command; hand. Yer seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, A they forgive his silence for success. The tidings spread, and gathering grows Friends'-husbands'-lovers' names in each for his lip the purpling cup they fill, "Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success That goblet passes him untasted still this!" 'tis done: Now form and follow me!"-the spoil is But shall we see them? will their accents From where the battle roars - the billows Here let them haste to gladden and surprize, What lonely straggler looks along the wave? Still sways their souls with that comma ing art That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vul heart. What is that spell, that thus his law train Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? What should it be? that thus their fa can bind? His ear with tidings he must quickly meet: We dare not yet approach-thou know'st his, The power of Thought-the magic of mood, Mind! When strange or uninvited steps intrude." Link'd with success, assumed and kept w skill, That moulds another's weakness to its w unknown, Him Juan sought, and told of their intent-Wields with their hands, but, still to t He spake not-but a sign express'd assent. TheseJuan calls-they come to their salute He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. "These letters, Chief, are from the Greek- the spy, Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh: to each Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: To gather how that eye the tidings took; He read the scroll-"My tablets, Juan, Where is Gonsalvo?" "In the anchor'd bark." "There let him stay-to him this order bear. Back to your duty-for my course prepare: Myself this enterprize 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 Makes even their mightiest deeds app his own. Such hath it been-shall be- beneath the "Tis Nature's doom-but let the wretch The many still must labour for the one His features' deepening lines and varying tell Too close inquiry his stern glance wo quell. There breathe but few whose aspect mi defy The full encounter of his searching eye He had the skill, when Cunning's g would seek To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, once the observer's purpose to espy, There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, He hated man too much to feel remorse, He knew himself a villain- but he deem'd Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike Sight are the outward signs of evil His name could sadden, and his acts surprise; thought, Within-within-'twas there the spirit wrought! Love shows all changes-Hatc, Ambition, Guile, May no further than the bitter smile; The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown blow; The last expires-but leaves no living foe; None are all evil - quickening round his One softer feeling would not yet depart; Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove If there be love in mortals - this was love! one! d too wise, in conduct there a fool; Tim to yield, and far too proud to stoop, d by his very virtues for a dupe, Hearsed those virtues as the cause of ill, ad at the traitors who betray'd him still; deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men dad left him joy, and means to give again. Prard - shunn'd belied-ere youth had Pass'd the first winding downward to the lost her force, He paused a moment-till his hastening men glen. |