THE GIAOUR:* A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. "One fatal remembrance-one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woeз-- To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, For which joy hath no balm-and affliction no sting."-MOORE ΤΟ SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., AN A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, London, May, 1813. BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, BYRON. ADVERTISEMENT. The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful. This word, immortalized by Byron in this poem, and not less by Beckford in "Vathek," means "infidel," and is pronounced Djiur, like Giamechid and other Eastern names. THE GIAOUR. No breath of air to break the wave Fair clime! where every season smilca There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek That wakes and wafts the odours there! The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles.-B. †The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-known Persian fable. It mistake not, the "Bulbul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations.-B. Whose bark in sheltering cove below Is heard, and seen the evening star; There man, enamour'd of distress, And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy! He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), The rapture of repose that's there, The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And-but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; He still might doubt the tyrant's power; The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing.-B. "Ay, but to die and go we know not where, To lie in cold obstruction."-Measure for Measure, Act iii. Sc. 2. So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, "Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! That parts not quite with parting breath; A gilded halo hovering round decay, Whose land from plain to mountain-cave These waters blue that round you lave, These scenes, their story not unknown, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted in description; but those who have will probably retain a painful remeinbrance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after" the spirit is not there." It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character; but in death from a stab, the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the last,-B. It is the fact of Grecian history and poetry having been the studies of the bright morning of our youth that imparts such a charm to all that belongs to this country. Its poetry and arts, still, it is true, preserve their supremacy; but in practical lessons, the history of our own immortal 17th century, and that of the Netherlands, are quite as abundant. A mightier monument command, What can he tell who treads thy shore? No theme on which the muse might soar, When man was worthy of thy clime. Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Who heard it first had cause to grieve. * Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, He shuns the near but doubtful creek: Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women), who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eunuch-these are not polite yet true appellations-now governs the governor of Athens.-B. Such was the case when Byron wrote this note, and Lady Morgan wrote "Ida of Athens." Since then the powers of Europe have made Greece a kingdom, and given her a monarch; whether she has reason to be proud in either case, we can hardly say. |