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It is as if the desert-bird, 30

The maid I love, the man I hate; Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream And I will hunt the steps of fate,

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, To save or slay, as these require, Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd,

Through rending steel, and rolling fire; Should rend her rash devoted breast,

Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one And find them flown her empty nest.

Who would but do-what he hath done. The keenest pangs the wretched find

Death is but what the haughty brave, Are rapture to the dreary void,

The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; The leafless desert of the mind,

Then let life go to him who gave: The waste of feelings unemploy'd.

I have not quail'd to danger's brow
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon

When high and happy-need I now?
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar
Than ne'er to brave the billows more-
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,

“I loved her, friar! nay adoredA lonely wreck on fortune's shore,

But these are words that all can use'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,

I proved it more in deed than word: Unseen to drop by dull decay ;

There's blood upon that dinted sword, Better to sink beneath the shock

A stain its steel can never lose; Than moulder piecemeal on the rock !

'Twas shed for her, who died for me,

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd:

Nay, start not-noor bend thy knee, "Father! thy days have pass'd in peace,

Nor midst my sins ct record; 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; Thou wilt absolve us in the deed, To bid the sins of others cease,

For he was hostile to inyod! Thyself without a crime or care,

The very name of Nazarene Save transient ills that all must bear,

Was wormwood to his Paynim Has been thy lot from youth to age;

Ungrateful fool! since but for bir ads And thou wilt bless thee from the rage

Well welded in some hardy hands, Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd,

And wounds by Galileans given, Such as thy penitents unfold,

The surest pass to Turkish heaven, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest

For him his Houris still might wait Within thy pure and pitying breast.

Impatient at the prophet's gate : My days, though few, have pass'd below

I loved her-love will find its way In much of joy, but more of wo;

Through paths where wolves would fear to prey Yet still in hours of love or strife,

And if it dares enough, 'twere hard I've 'scaped the weariness of life;

If passion met not some rewardNow leagued with friends, now girt by foes, No matter how, or where, or why I loathed the languor of repose.

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh; Now nothing left to love or hate,

Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain No more with hope or pride elate,

I wish she had not loved again. I'd rather be the thing that crawls

She died—I dare not tell thee how; Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls,

But look'tis written on my brow; Than pass my dull, unvarying days,

There read of Cain the curse and crime, Condemn'd to meditate and gaze.

In characters unworn by time: Yet, lurks a wish within my breast

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; For rest but not to feel 'tis rest.

Not mine the act, though I the cause. Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;

Yet did he but what I had done And I shall sleep without the dream

Had she been false to more than one. Of what I was, and would be still,

Faithless to him, he gave the blow; Dark as to thee my deeds may seem;

But true to me, I laid him low : My memory now is but the tomb

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom:

Her treachery was truth to me; Though better to have died with those

To me she gave her heart, that all Than bear a life of lingering woes.

Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; My spirits shrunk not to sustain

And I, alas ! too late to save! The searching throes of ceaseless pain

Yet all I then could give, I gave, Nor sought the self-accorded grave

'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. Of ancient fool and modern knave:

His death sits lightly; but her fate Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ;

Has made me what thou well may'st hate. And in the field it had been sweet,

His doom was seal'd-he knew it well, Had danger woo'd me on to move

Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, The slave of glory, not of love.

Deep in whose darkly boding ear 40 I've braved it-not for honor's boast;

The death-shot peal'd of murder near, I smile at laurels won or lost;

As filed the troop to where they fell! To such let others carve their way,

He died 'too in the battle broil, For high renown, or hireling pay:

A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; But place again before my eyes

One cry to Mahomet for aid, Aught that I deem a worthy prize,

One prayer to Alla all he made:

He knew and cross'd me in the fray

Why marvel ye, if they who lose I gazed upon him where he lay.

This present joy, this future hope,
And watch'd his spirit ebb away;

No more with sorrow meekly cope;
Though pierc'd like pard by hunters' steel, In frenzy then their fate accuse :
He felt not half that now I feel.

In madness do those fearful deeds
I search'd, but vainly search’d, to find

That seem to add but guilt to wo? The workings of a wounded mind;

Alas! the breast that inly bleeds Each feature of that sullen corse

Hath fought to dread from outward blow: Betray'd his rage, but no remorse.

Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Oh, what had vengeance given to trace

Cares little into what abyss. Despair upon his dying face?

Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now The late repentance of that hour,

To thee, old man, my deeds appear: When penitence hath lost her power

I read abhorrence on thy brow, To tear one terror from the grave,

And this too was I born to bear!
And will not soothe, and cannot save.

"Tis true that, like that bird of prey,
With havoc have I mark'd the way:

But this was taught me by the dove, "The cold in clime are cold in blood,

To die and know no second love. Their love can scarce deserve the name;

This lesson yet hath man to learn, But mine was like the lava flood

Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.

The bird that sings within the brake, I cannot prate in puling strain

The swan that swims upon the lake, Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain;

One mate, and one alone, will take.

And let the fool still prone to range,
If changing cheek, and scorching vein,
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,

And sneer on all who cannot change,
If bursting heart, and madd’ning brain,

Partake his jest with boasting boys; And daring deed, and vengeful steel,

I envy not his varied joys, And all that I have felt, and feel,

But deem such feeble, heartless man, Betoken love that love was mine,

Less than yon solitary swan; And shown by many a bitter sign.

Far, far beneath the shallow maid 'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh,

He left believing and betray'd. I knew but to obtain or die.

Such shame at least was never mineI die-but first I have possessid,

Leila! each thought was only thine! And, come what may, I have been blest.

My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ?

My hope on high-my all below. No-reft of all, yet undismay'd

Earth holds no other like to thee, But for the thought of Leila slain,

Or, if it doth, in vain for me: Give me the pleasure with the pain,

For worlds I dare not view the dame So would I live and love again.

Resembling thee, yet not the same. I grieve, but not, my holy guide !

The very crimes that mar my youth, For him who dics, but her who died :

This bed of death-attest my truth! She sleeps beneath the wandering wave

'Tis all too late-thou wert, thou art Ah! had she but an earthly grave,

The cherish'd madness of my heart!
This breaking heart and throbbing head
Should seek and share her narrow bed.

“And she was lostmand yet I breathed, She was a form of life and light,

But not the breath of human life; That, seen, became a part of sight;

A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, The morning-star of memory!

And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorr'd all place,

Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, “Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ;

Where every hue that charm'd before A spark of that immotal fire

The blackness of my bosom wore. With angels shared, by Alla given,

The rest thou dost already know, To lift from earth our low desire.

And all my sins, and half my wo. Devotion wafts the mind above,

But talk no more of penitence; But heaven itself descends in love;

Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence, A feeling from the Godhead caught,

And if thy holy tale were true, To wean from self each sordid thought;

The deed that's done can'st thou undo? A ray of him who form'd the whole ;

Think me not thankless—but this grief A glory circling round the soul !

Looks not to priesthood for relief.41 I grant my love imperfect, all

My soul's estate in secret guess : That mortals by the name miscall ;

But wouldst thou pity more, say less. Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ;

When thou canst bid my Leila live, But say, oh say, hers was not guilt!

Then will I sue thec to forgive: She was my life's unerring light:

Then plead my cause in that high place That quench’d, what beam shall break my night? Where purchased masses proffer grace. Oh! would it shone to lead me still,

Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung Although to death or deadliest ill!

From forest-cave her shrieking young,

And calm the lonely lioness:

Which now I gaze on, as on her, But sooth not-mock not my distress.

Who look'd and looks far lovelier;

Dimly I view its trembling spark, " In earlier days, and calmer hours,

To-morrow's night shall be more dark When heart with heart delights to blend, And I, before its rays appear, Where bloom my native valley's bowers,

That lifeless thing the living fear. I hadmah! have I now?-a friend!

I wander, father! for my soul To him this pledge I charge thee send,

Is fleeting towards the final goal. Memorial of a youthful vow;

I saw her, friar! and I rose I would remind him of my end :

Forgetful of our former woes ; Though souls absorbed like mine allow

And rushing from my couch, I dart, Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, And clasp her to my desperate heart; Yet dear to him my blighted name.

I clasp--what is it that I clasp ? 'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom,

No breathing form within my grasp, And I have smiled—I then could smile No heart that beats reply to mine, When prudence would his voice assume,

Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine ! And warn- I reck'd not what-the while: And art thou, dearest, changed so much, But now remembrance whispers o'er

As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? Those accents scarcely mark'd before.

Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, Say—that his bodings came to pass,

I care not; so my arms enfold And he will start to hear their truth,

The all they ever wish to hold. And wish his words had not been sooth:

Alas! around a shadow prest, Tell him, unheeding as I was,

They shrink upon my lonely breast; Through many a busy bitter scene

Yet still 'tis there! in silence stands, Of all our golden youth had been,

And beckons with beseeching hands ! In pain, my faltering tongue had tried

With braided hair, and bright-blatekeye To bless his memory ere I died

I knew 'twas false-she could not de! But Heaven in wrath would turn away,

But he is dead! within the dell If guilt should for the guiltless pray.

I saw him buried where he fell; I do not ask him not to blame,

He comes not, for he cannot break Too gentle he to wound my name;

From earth; why then art thou awake? And what have I to do with fame?

They told me wild waves roll'd above I do not ask him not to mourn,

The face I view, the form I love; Such cold request might sound like scorn; They told me 'twas a hideous tale! And what than friendship’s manly tear

I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : May better grace a brother's bier?

If true, and from thine ocean-cave But bear this ring, his own of old,

Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, And tell him—what thou dost behold:

Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,

This brow that then will burn no more ; The wrack by passion left behind,

Or place them on my hopeless heart: A shriveli'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf,

But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art, Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief!

In mercy ne'er again depart !
Or farther with thee bear my soul,

Than winds can waft or waters roll!
“Tell me no more of fancy's gleam,
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ;

“Such is my name, and such my tale. Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,

Confessor! to thy secret ear I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep;

I breathe the sorrows I bewail, But could not, for my burning brow

And thank thee for the generous tear Throbb'd to the very brain as now:

This glazing eye could never shed. I wish'd but for a single tear,

Then lay me with the humblest dead, As something welcome, new, and dear :

And, save the cross above my head, I wish'd it then, I wish it still ;

Be neither nane nor emblem spread, Despair is stronger than my will.

By prying stranger to be read,
Waste not thine orison, despair

Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread."
Is mightier than thy pious prayer
I would not, if I might, be blest;

He pass’d-nor of his name and race I want no paradise, but rest.

Hath left a token or a trace, 'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then

Save what the father must not say I saw her; yes, she lived again;

Who shrived him on his dying day: And shining in her white symar,

This broken tale was all we knew As through yon pale gray cloud the stai

Of her he loved, or him he slew.


To lie in cold obstruction."


9. That tomb, which, gleaming o'er the cliff.

Scoift as the hurld on high jerreed.
Page 108, line 3.

Page 110, line 85. A TOMB above the rocks on the promontory, by Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. which is darted from horseback with great force and

precision. It is a favorite exercise of the Mussul2.

mans; but I know not if it can be called a manly Sultana of the nightingale.

one, since the most expert in the art are the Black

Page 108, line 16. Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these, The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that a well known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the came within my observation. "Bulbul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations.


He came, he went, like the simoom.
Til the gay mariner's quitar.

Page 110, line 116.
Page 109, line 3. The blast of the desert, fatal to everything living,
The guitar is the constant amusement of the and often alluded to in eastern poetry.
Greek sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and

11. during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing.

To bless the sacred bread and salt.

Page 111, line 143. 4.

To partake of food, to break bread and salt with Where cold obstruction's apathy.

your host, insures the safety of the guest; even Page 109, line 44. though an enemy, his person from that moment is

sacred. "Ay, but w die and go we know not where,

12. Measure for Measure, Act III. 130, Sc. 2. Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre.

Page 111, line 51. 5.

I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospi The first, last look by death reveald. tality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet,

Page 109, line 52.

and, to say truth, very generally practised by his I trust that few of my readers have ever had an disciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted a chief is a panegyric on his bounty; the next, on in description, but those who have, will probably his valor. retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty

13. which pervades, with few exceptions, the features

And silver-sheathed ataghan. of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours,

Page 111, line 56. "after the spirit is not there." It is to be re

The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in marked, in cases of violent death by gunshot the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; wounds, the expression is always that of languor, and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character: but in death from a stab, the countenance

14. preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias to the last.

An emir by his garb of green.

Page 111, line 58. 6.

Green is the privileged color of the prophet's Slaves--nay, the bondsmen of a slave. numerous pretended descendants; with them, as

Page 109, line 114. here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the supersede the necessity of good works: they are the slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women,) worst of a very indifferent brood. who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eunach-these are not polite, yet true appellations

15. now governs the governor of Athens !

Ho! who art thout this low salam.

Page 111, line 59. 1.

Salam aleikoum salam! peace be with you; be 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. with you peace the salutation reserved for the faith

Page 109, line 24. ful:-to a Christian, “Urlarula,” a good journey Infidel.

or saban hiresem, saban serula; good morn, good 8.

even; and sometimes, “may your end be happy!” In echoes of the far tophaike.

are the usual salutes. Page 110, line 59.

16. "Tophaike," musket.-The Bairam is announced The insect-queen of eastern spring. by the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the

Page 111 line 92. mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night. Trare and beautiful of the species.


Bismillah-"In the name of God;" the com. Or live like scorpion girt by fire.

mencement of all the chapters of the Koran but

Page 112, line 7. one, and of prayer and thanksgiving. Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion,

27. 80 placed for experiment by gentle philosophers.

Then curl'd his very beard with ire. Some maintain that the position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is merely a convulsive

Page 113, line 37. movement; but others have actually brought in the Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whis

A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry verdict, " Felo de se.” The scorpions are surely kers, at a diplomatic audience, were no less lively interested in a speedy decision of the question; as, if once fairly established

as insect Catos, they will with indignation than a tiger cat's, to the horror of probably be allowed to live as long as they think twisted, they stood erect of their own accord, and

all the dragomans; the portentous mustachios proper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypothesis.

were expected every moment to change their color, 18.

but at last condescended to subside, which, probao When Rhamazan's last sun was set.

bly, saved more heads than they contained hairs Page 112, line 23.

28. The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See

Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun. pote 8.

Page 113, line 47. 19.

“Amaun," quarter, pardon. By pale Phingari's trembling light.

29. Page 112, line 42. Phingari, the moon.

I know him by the evil eye. 20.

Page 113, line 56. Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.

The “evil eye,” a common superstition in the Page 112, line 54.

Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, very singular, on those who conceive themselves af

fected the embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendor,

30. named Schebgerag, “the torch of night;" also, " the cup of the sun,” &c.-In the first edition,

A fragment of his palampore. “ Giamschid” was written as a word of three syl

Page 113, line 111. lables, so D'Herbelot has it; but I am told Rich

The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons ardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jam- of rank. shid.” I have left in the text the orthography of

31. the one with the pronunciation of the other.

His calpac rent-his caftan red.

Page 114, line 29. 21.

The “calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood. the head-dress; the shawl is wound round it, and

Page 112, line 58. forms the turban. Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth less than the thread of a famished spider, over which the Mus

A turban carved in coarsest stone. sulmans must skate into paradise, to which it is the

Page 114, line 36. only entrance; but this is not the worst, the river The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be ex- the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemepected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to tery or the wilderness. In the mountains you fretumble with a “facilis descensus Averni," not very queạtly pass similar mementos; and, on inquiry, pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There you are informed, that they record some victim of is a shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Chris- rebellion, plunder, or revenge. tians. 22.

And keep that portion of his creed.

At solemn sound of Alla Hu!".
Page 112, line 63.

Page 114, line 47. A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third “ Alla Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezparadise to well-behaved women; but by far the zin's call to prayer from the highest gallery on the greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text exterior of the minaret. On a still evening, when their own way, and exclude their moieties from the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is frequently heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond discern “any fitness of things " in the souls of the all the bells in Christendom. other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the Houris.

34. 23.

They come their kerchiefs green they wave. The young pomegranate's blossoms strew.

Page 114, line 56. Page 112, line 69. The following is part of a battle-song of the An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though Turks :-"I see I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, fairly stolen, be deemed “plus Arabe qu'en Arabie." and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green;

and cries aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee, 24. Her hair in hyacinthine flor.

35. Page 112, line 71.

Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. Hyacinthine, in Arabic, “Sunbul;” as common

Page 114, line 62. a thought in the eastern poets, as it was among the

Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, Greeks.

before whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate 25.

and preparatory training for damnation. If the anThe loveliest bird of Franguestan. swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a

Page 112, line 81. scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till Franguestan," Circassia.

properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary pro

bations. The office of these angels is no sinecure; 26.

there are but two, and the number of orthodox deBismillah! now the peril's past. ceased being in a small proportion to the remainder,

Page 113, line 92. their hands are always full.




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