Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay,
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray.
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill,
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still!
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown;
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own;
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight,
Blend every thought, do all—but disunite!
Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide;
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside.
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd
By fatal nature to man's warring kind:

Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!
He makes a solitude, and calls it-peace !
I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength,
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length:
Power sways but by division-her resource
The blest alternative of fraud or force!
Ours be the last; in time deceit may come
When cities cage us in a social home:

There even thy soul might err-how oft the heart
Corruption shakes which peril could not part!
And woman, more than man, when death or woe
Or even disgrace would lay her lover low,
Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame-
Away suspicion!-not Zuleika's name!
But life is hazard at the best; and here
No more remains to win, and much to fear:
Yes, fear!-the doubt, the dread of losing thee,
By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree.
That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale,
Which love to-night hath promised to my sail:
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest,
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest.

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms;
Earth-sea alike-our world within our arms!
Ay-let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck,

So that those arms cling closer round my neck:

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee!
The war of elements no fears impart
To love, whose deadliest bane is human art:
There lie the only rocks our course can check;
Here moments menace-there are years of wreck!
But hence ye thoughts that rise in horror's shape!
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape.
Few words remain of mine my tale to close;
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes;
Yea-foes-to me will Giaffir's hate decline?
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine?

XXI.

« His head and faith from doubt and death
Return'd in time my guard to save;
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave
From isle to isle I roved the while:
And since, though parted from my band
Too seldom now I leave the land,

No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do,
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too:
I form the plan, decree the spoil,
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil.
But now too long I've held thine ear;
Time presses, floats my bark, and here
We leave behind but hate and fear.

To-morrow Osman with his train
Arrives-to-night must break thy chain :
And would'st thou save that haughty Bey,
Perchance his life who gave thee thine,
With me this hour away-away !

But yet, though thou art plighted mine,
Would'st thou recal thy willing vow,
Appall'd by truths imparted now,
Here rest I-not to see thee wed:
But be that peril on my head!»>
XXII.

Zuleika, mute and motionless,
Stood like that statue of distress,
When, her last hope for ever gone,
The mother harden'd into stone;
All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niobé.
But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Essay'd to speak, or look reply,
Beneath the garden's wicket porch
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch!
Another-and another-and another

<< Oh! fly-no more—yet now my more than brother!»>
Far, wide, through every thicket spread,
The fearful lights are gleaming red;
Nor these alone-for each right hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand.
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau, shining steel;
And last of all, his sabre waving,
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:
And now almost they touch the cave-
Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave?

XXIII.

Dauntless he stood-« 'Tis come-soon past-
One kiss, Zuleika-'t is my last:

But yet my band not far from shore
May hear this signal, see the flash;
Yet now too few-the attempt were rash:
No matter-yet one effort more. »>
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept;

His pistol's echo rang on high.

Zuleika started not, nor wept,

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye!—
They hear me not, or if they ply

Their oars, 't is but to see me die;
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh.
Then forth my father's scimitar,
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war!
Farewell, Zuleika!-Sweet! retire:
Yet stay within-here linger safe,
At thee his rage will only chafe.
Stir not-lest even to thee perchance
Some erring blade or ball should glance.
Fear'st thou for him?-may I expire
If in this strife I seek thy sire!
No-though by him that poison pour'd;
No-though again he call me coward!
But tamely shall I meet their steel?
No-as each crest save his may feel!»

XXIV.

One bound be made, and gain'd the sand: Already at his feet hath sunk

The foremost of the prying band,

A gasping head, a quivering trunk :
Another falls-but round him close
A swarming circle of his foes;
From right to left his path he cleft,

And almost met the meeting wave:
His boat appears-not five oars' length-
His comrades strain with desperate strength-
Oh! are they yet in time to save?
Ilis feet the foremost breakers lave;
His band are plunging in the bay,
Their sabres glitter through the spray;
Wet-wild-unwearied to the strand
They struggle-now they touch the land!
They come 't is but to add to slaughter-
His heart's best blood is on the water!

XXV.

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel,
Or scarcely grazed it's force to feel,
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset,

To where the strand and billows met:
There as his last step left the land,
And the last death-blow dealt his hand-
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look

For her his eye but sought in vain?
That pause, that fatal gaze he took,

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain.
Sad proof, in peril and in pain,
How late will lover's hope remain!
His back was to the dashing spray;
Behind, but close, his comrades lay,
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball-
<So may the foes of Giaffir fall!»
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang?
Whose bullet through the night-air sang?
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err,

T is thine-Abdallah's murderer!
The father slowly rued thy hate,
The son hath found a quicker fate:
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling-
If aught his lips essay'd to groan,
The rushing billows choak'd the tone!

XXVI.

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;
Few trophies of the fight are there :
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay
Are silent; but some signs of fray

That strand of strife may bear,
And fragments of each shiver'd brand;
Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand
The print of many a struggling hand

May there be mark'd; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat; And tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep

There lies a white capote!

T is rent in twain-one dark-red stain
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain :
But where is he who wore?
Ye! who would o'er his relics weep
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sigæum's steep
And cast on Lemnos' shore:

The sea-birds shriek above the prey,
O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,

His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,

Then levell'd with the wave

What recks it, though that corse shall lie
Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only rebb'd the meaner worm;
The only heart, the only eye

Had bled or wept to see him die,

Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed,

And mourn'd above his turban-stone, 40 That heart hath burst-that eye was closedYea-closed before his own!

Sufficed to kill;

Burst forth in one wild cry-and all was still.

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave!

Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst!

That grief-though deep-though fatal-was thy first!
Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse!
And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies!
The worm that will not sleep-and never dies;
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light,
That winds around, and tears the quivering heart!
Ah! wherefore not consume it-and depart!
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief?

Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head,
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread:
By that same hand Abdallah-Selim bled.
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief:
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed,
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed,

Thy daughter's dead!

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, The Star bath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quench'd its ray?—the blood that thou hast shed! Hark! to the hurried question of despair:

-«Where?» 42

« Where is my child?»-an echo answers-«

XXVIII.

Within the place of thousand tombs That shine beneath, while dark above

The sad but living cypress glooms

And withers not, though branch and leaf
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,

Like early unrequited love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Even in that deadly grove-
A single rose is shedding there

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale:
It looks as planted by despair-

So white-so faint-the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high;

And yet, though storms and blight assail,
And hands more rude than wintry sky

May wring it from the stem-in vain-
To-morrow sees it bloom again!
The stalk some spirit gently rears,
And waters with celestial tears;

For well may maids of Helle deem
That this can be no earthly flower,
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour,
And buds unshelter'd by a bower;

Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower,
Nor woos the summer beam:

To it the livelong night there sings
A bird unseen-but not remote:
Invisible his airy wings,

But soft as harp that houri strings
His long entrancing note!

It were the bulbul; but his throat,

Though mournful, pours not such a strain: For they who listen cannot leave The spot, but linger there and grieve

As if they loved in vain!

And yet so sweet the tears they shed,
"T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread,
They scarce can bear the morn to break
That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well!

But when the day-blush bursts from high
Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe

(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,

Yet harsh be they that blame) That note so piercing and profound Will shape and syllable its sound

Into Zuleika's name. 43

'Tis from her cypress' summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word:
'Tis from her lowly virgin carth
That white rose takes its tender birth.
There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed-the morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell,

Next morn 't was found where Selim fell:
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave:
And there, by night, reclined, 't is said,
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:
And hence extended by the billow,
'Tis named the «Pirate-phantom's pillow!»
Where first it lay that mourning flower
Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;
As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale!

Note 6. Page 148, line 12.

The mind, the music breathing from her face.

This expression has met with objections. I will not refer to him who hath not Music in his soul,» but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful; and if he then does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, 1 shall be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps, of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that analogy) between « painting and music,» see vol. iii. cap. 10. DE L'ALLEMAGNE. And is not this connexion still stronger with the original than the copy? with the colouring of nature than of art? After all, this is rather to be felt than described; still I think there are some who will understand it, at least they would have done had they beheld the countenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; for this passage is not drawn from imagination but memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied!

Note 7. Page 148, line 34.

But yet the line of Carasman.

Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition of service, are called Timariots: they serve as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry.

Note 8. Page 148, line 46.

And teach the messenger what fate.

When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his death, is strangled instead, and sometimes five or six, one after the other, on the same errand, by command of the refractory patient; if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the