female servant, and Fletcher, his valet, who had been his servant at college, who had accompanied him on his travels, and who never quitted him from the moment of entering his service until that which, by terminating the life of the master, deprived the follower of his best and kindest friend.

Lord Byron devoted himself almost entirely to literary pursuits, and, among other things, to the completion of some of those poetical sketches which he had made in the East. The first of these which he gave to the public was the tale of the Giaour,' which is one of the most original and spirited of his productio ns.

The story is that of a young Venetian, who, at the time when the Seven Islands were in the possession of the republic of Venice, had become enamoured of Leila, the favorite slave of Hassan, a rich einir. His suit had been prosperous, and he had for a time succeeded in baffling the jealous vigilance of her lord. This, however, could not continue for a very long period. Hassan's discovery of the infidelity of Leila is followed by the infliction of that summary vengeance, which, if it does not make the females of the East more virtuous, at least prevents the frequent repetition of their offences. The lover being beyond his reach, he, according to the most approved eastern method in such cases, had the hapless fair fastened up in a sack, and, carrying her in a boat to where the channeled waters' are dark and deep, sunk it into the dark and shuddering flood. The lover of the murdered beauty, distracted at the news of his mistress's fate, resolves at least to avenge that which he could not avert. He leagues himself with a band of Arnaouts, and, attacking Hassan and his train, as the latter is on a journey to woo a rich and youthful bride, he slays him in the desert, and tells him it is for Leila that he strikes the blow. After having satisfied his vengeance he retires to a monastery, where, after living some years of agony, he dies; but, before his death, discloses to one of the brotherhood the tale of his love, his grief, and his revenge.

Lord Byron says he heard this story, by accident, recited in a coffeehouse in the Levant, by one of those professional story-tellers who abound there, and who partly sing, and partly recite, their narratives. He adds modestly, the additions and interpolations by the translator will easily be distinguished from the rest by the want of eastern imagery, and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original.'

Perhaps to the impression which this disjointed manner of hearing the story, and the additional beauties which the invention of the poet

supplied, may be ascribed to the broken manner in which the poem is written. The transitions are abrupt, but they are always highly effective; and, although in no place the thread of the narrative is kept up, it is in no place obscure or unintelligible.

The poem opens with a description of modern Greece, which has been so often quoted, and so highly praised, that it is now merely necessary to draw the reader's attention to it:

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,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose, that's there,

The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The langour of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave!
Say, is not this Thermopyla?
These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh, servile offspring of the free!
Pronounce what sea, what shore, is this-
The gulf, the rock, of Salamis !

These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Suatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For, Freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,—
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!

"Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasement paved the way
To vilain-bonds and despot-sway.

The hero of the poem-the vengeful, maddened, Giaour-is thus in

troduced:

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,

With slackened bit and hoof of speed?
Beneath the clattering iron's sound
The caverned echoes wake around
In lash for lash, and bound for bound;
'The foam that streaks the courser's side
Seems gathered from the ocean-tide:
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There's none within his rider's breast:
And, though to-morrow's tempest lower,
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace
What time shall strengthen, not efface:
Though young and pale, that sallow front
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ;
Though bent on earth thine evil eye,
As meteor-like thou glidest by,
Right well I view and deem thee one

Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

The manner of the death of the ill-fated Leila is supposed to be told by a mariner, whose boat was employed on the tragic occasion:

I hear the sound of coming feet,
But not a voice mine ear to greet;
More near-each turban I can scan,

And silver-sheathed ataghan ;
The foremost of the band is seen,

An emir by his garb of green:
'Ho! who art thou ?-this low salam
Replies of Moslem faith I am.

The burden ye so gently bear,

Seems one that claims your utmost care,
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight,
My humble bark would gladly wait.'

Thou speakest sooth; thy skiff unmoor,
And waft us from the silent shore;
Nay, leave the sail still furled, and ply
The nearest oar that's scattered by,
And midway to those rocks where sleep
The channeled waters dark and deep.
Rest from your task-so-bravely done,
Our course has been right swiftly run;
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow,
That one of'-

*

*

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank;
The calm wave rippled to the bank :
I watched it as it sank; methought
Some motion, from the current caught,
Bestirred it more;-'twas but the beam
That chequered o'er the living stream:
I gazed, till, vanishing from view,
Like lessening pebble it withdrew;

Still less and less, a speck of white

That gemmed the tide, then mocked the sight;

And all its hidden secrets sleep,

Known but to genii of the deep,

Which, trembling in their coral caves,

They dare not whisper to the waves,

There are passages of more force, and perhaps of greater originality, than the following; but there are none of greater beauty.

As, rising on its purple wing,

The insect-queen of eastern spring
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower

A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye: