"Tell me no more of fancy's gleam,
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream;
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,-
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep;
But could not, for my burning brow
Throbb'd to the very brain as now:
I wish'd but for a single tear,

As something welcome, new, and dear;
I wish'd it then, I wish it still;
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not, if I might, be blest;
I want no paradise, but rest.
"Twas then, I tell thee, father! then
I saw her; yes, she lived again;
And shining in her white symar,*
As through yon pale gray cloud the star
Which now I gaze on, as on her,
Who look'd and looks far lovelier;
Dimly I view its trembling spark;
To-morrow's night shall be more dark;
And I, before its rays appear,
That lifeless thing the living fear.
I wander, father! for my soul
Is fleeting towards the final goal.
I saw her, friar! and I rose
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?
No breathing form within my grasp,
No heart that beats reply to mine,
Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!
And art thou, dearest, changed so much,
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?
Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold,
I care not; so my arms enfold
The all they ever wish to hold.
Alas! around a shadow press'd,
They shrink upon my lonely breast;
Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands,
And beckons with beseeching hands!
With braided hair, and bright black eye
I knew 'twas false-she could not die!
But he is dead! within the dell

I saw him buried where he fell;
He comes not, for he cannot break

From earth; why then art thou awake!

"Symar," a shroud.

They told me wild waves roll'd above
The face I view, the form I love:
They told me 'twas a hideous talo !
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail :
If true, and from thine ocean-cave
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave;
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er
This brow, that then will burn no more;
Or place them on my hopeless heart:
But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art.
In mercy ne'er again depart!

Or farther with thee bear my soul
Than winds can waft or waters roll!

"Such is my name, and such my tale.
Confessor! to thy secret ear

I breathe the sorrows I bewail,

And thank thee for the generous tear
This glazing eye could never shed.
Then lay me with the humblest dead,
And, save the cross above my head,
Be neither name nor emblem spread,
By prying stranger to be read,
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread."

He pass'd-nor of his name and race
Hath left a token or a Leace.
Save what the father must not say
Who shrived him on his aying day:
This broken tale was all he knew
Of her he loved, or him he slew.*

The circumstance to which the above story relates, was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago, the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's supposed infidelity; he asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night! One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror, at so sudden a "wrench from all we know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaut ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing cr recite their narratives. The additions and interpolations by the translator will be easily distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery; and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original. For the contents of some of the notes, I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, and, as Mr. Webber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials; some of his incidents are to be found in the "Bibliothèque Orientale;" but for correctness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European initations; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it; his " Happy Valley" will not bear 8 comparison with the " Hall of Eblis."-B.

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.

WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye:
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:
My thoughts their dungeon know too well-
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink

And droop within their silent cell.

September, 191&

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS:

A TURKISH TALE.

"Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly

Never met or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted."-BURNS.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND,

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED,

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT,

BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND

SINCERE FRIEND,

BYRON.

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom!*

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,

And the voice of the nightingale never is mute,

Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky

In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,

And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,

And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? +

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

"Gél," the rose.-B.

"Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun,

With whom Revenge is Virtue."-YOUNG's Revenge.-B.

II.

Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparell'd as becomes the brave,
Awaiting each his lord's behest
To guide his steps, or guard his rest,
Old Giaffir sat in his Divan:

Deep thought was in his aged eye;
And though the face of Mussulman
Not oft betrays to standers by
The mind within, well skill'd to hide
All but unconquerable pride,

His pensive cheek and pondering brow
Did more than he was wont avow.

III.

"Let the chamber be clear'd.”—The train disappear'd "Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." With Giaffir is none but his only son,

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award.
"Haroun-when all the crowd that wait
Are pass'd beyond the outer gate,
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld
My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !)
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower;
Her fate is fix'd this very hour:
Yet not to her repeat my thought;
By me alone be duty taught!"
"Pacha! to hear is to obey."
No more must slave to despot say-
Then to the tower had ta'en his way;
But here young Selim silence brake,
First lowly rendering reverence meet;
And downcast look'd, and gently spake,
Still standing at the Pacha's feet:
For son of Moslem must expire,
Ere dare to sit before his sire!

"Father! for fear that thou shouldst chido
My sister, or her sable guide,

Know-for the fault, if fault there be,

Was mine; then fall thy frowns on me—
So lovelily the morning shone,

That-let the old and weary sleep-

I could not; and to view alone

The fairest scenes of land and decp,

With none to listen and reply

To thoughts with which my heart beat high,

Were irksome; for whate'er my mood,

In sooth I love not solitude;

I on Zuleika's slumber broke,

And, as thou knowest that for me
Soon turns the Haram's grating key,
Before the guardian slaves awoke