Ungrateful fool! since but for brands
Well wielded in some hardy hands,
And wounds by Galileans given,
The surest pass to Turkish heaven,
For him his houris still might wait
Impatient at the prophet's gate.

I loved her love will find its way
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey;
And, if it dares enough, 'twere hard

If passion met not some reward-
No matter how, or where, or why,
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain
I wish she had not loved again.
She died I dare not tell thee how; !
But look-'tis written on my brow!
There read of Cain the curse and crime,
In characters unworn by time:
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause;
Not mine the act, though I the cause.
Yet did he but what I had done
Had she been false to more than one. I
Faithless to him, he gave the blow;
But, true to me, I laid him low:
Howe'er deserved her doom might be,
Her treachery was truth to me;
To me she gave her heart,-that all
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall;
And I, alas! too late to save!
Yet all I then could give, I gave,
'Twas some relief, our foe a grave.
His death sits lightly; but her fate
Has made me what thou well may'st hate.

His doom was sealed-he knew it well,
Warned by the voice of stern Taheer,

Deep in whose darkly boding ear
The deathshot pealed of murder near,

As filed the troop to where they fell!
He died, too, in the battle broil,
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ;'.

One cry to Mahomet for aid,

One prayer to Alla all he made :
He knew and crossed me in the fray
I gazed upon him where he lay, "
And watched his spirit ebb away:
Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel,
He felt not half that now I feel.

I searched, but vainly searched, to find
The workings of a wounded mind :.'
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betrayed his rage, but no remorse.
Oh, what had vengeance given to trace
Despair upon his dying face!
The late repentance of that hour,
When Penitence hath lost her power

I

i

This breaking heart and throbbing head
Should seek and share her narrow bed.
She was a form of life and light,
That, seen, became a part of sight;
And rose, where'er I turned mine eye
The Morning-star of Memory!

Yes, love indeed is light from heaven;
A spark of that immortal fire,
With angels shared, by Alla given,
To lift from earth our low desire.
Devotion wafts the mind above,
But Heaven itself descends in love;
A feeling from the Godhead caught,
To wean from self each sordid thought;
A ray of Him who formed the whole;
A glory circling round the soul!

And she was lost-and yet I breathed,
But not the breath of human life:
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.
Alike all time, abhorred all place,
Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face,
Where every
hue that charmed before
The blackness of my bosom wore.

The rest thou dost already know,

And all my sins, and half my woe.

But talk no more of penitence;

Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence:

And if thy holy tale were true,

The deed that's done can'st thou undo?

Think me not thankless-but this grief
Looks not to priesthood for relief.
My soul's estate in secret guess :
But would'st thou pity more, say less.
When thou can'st bid my Leila live,
Then will I sue thee to forgive;
Then plead my cause in that high place
Where purchased masses proffer grace.
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung
From forest-cave her shrieking young,

And calin the lonely lioness;

But sooth not, mock not, my distress!'

With the following passage this original and touching poem ends:

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 passed-nor of his name and race
Hath left a token or a trace,

Save what the father must not say
Who shrived him on his dying day:
This broken tale was all we knew
Of her he loved, or him he slew.

This poem had the most universal and unequivocal success. The abrupt and dark manner in which the narrative was conducted found many admirers, and the striking novelty of the style made an impression even on those persons who are not usually much interested in the poetry of the day. It can, however, hardly be doubted that a more careful and correct manner of writing would have improved The Giaour,' although, perhaps, the effort which it would have required, might not have added proportionately to the author's reputation.

Within a very short period, however, Lord Byron proved that, if he chose sometimes to adopt a singular style, he was not the less capable of succeeding in a more correct and beautiful kind of composition. The publication of another Turkish tale, called 'The Bride of Abydos,' was as conclusive a testimony of the facility and grace of his manner as his other productions had been of his genius and power.

As there is no indication of the source whence the foundation of this tale was derived, it is probably a pure invention of the author, and in this point of view must be regarded as an instance of the power and richness of his mind.

The poem opens with a description of the divan of the aged Giaffir, the Pacha of a Turkish province. The Pacha orders his daughter Zuleika

to be brought before him. His son Selim, who stands by, knowing that Zuleika cannot very promptly obey the summons, tells the old man that he had been wandering with his sister in the cypress grove, contemplating the beauties of Nature; and,

beguiled too long,

With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song,

they had lingered there until the tambour was heard to announce the divan; when he, Selim, hastened to wait on his father, but that Zuleika is still in the grove.

This apology excites the rage of the Pacha, who is among the most irritable of old men; and the manner in which his son receives his reproof gives him reason to fear and to suspect him:

'Son of a slave-the Pacha said

From unbelieving mother bred,

Vain were a father's hope to see

Aught that beseems a man in thee.

Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow,
And burl the dart, and curb the steed,
Thou, Greek in soul, if not in creed,
Must pore where babbling waters flow,
And watch unfolding roses blow.
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow
Thy listless eyes so much admire,
Would lend thee something of his fire!
Thou, who would'st see this battlement
By Christiau cannon piecemeal rent-
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall
Before the dogs of Moscow fall-
Nor strike oue stroke for life and death
Against the curs of Nazareth!

Go-let thy less than woman's hand
Assume the distaff-not the brand,
But, Haroun to my daughter speed-
And hark-of thine own head take heed!
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing-
Thou see'st yon bow-it hath a string !'

No sound from Selim's lip was heard,

At least that met old Giaffir's ear,

But every frown and every word

Pierced keener than a Christian's sword: