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He call'd on Alla-but the word
Arose unheeded or unheard.

Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there?
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these,
The traitor in his turn to seize;
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done,
And now I go—but go alone."

The browsing camels' bells are tinkling: 1
His Mother look'd from her lattice high 2
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling
The pasture green beneath her eye,


She saw the planets faintly twinkling: "Tis twilight :-sure his train is nigh." She could not rest in the garden-bower, But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower: "Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, Nor shrink they from the summer heat; Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift? Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift?

Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow,
And warily the steep descends,

And now within the valley bends;
And he bears the gift at his saddle bow
How could I deem his courser slow?
Right well my largess shall repay
His welcome speed, and weary way."

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7" Alla Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezziu's call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. -[Valid, the son of Abdalmalek, was the first who erected a minaret or turret; and this he placed on the grand mosque at Damascus, for the muezzin, or crier, to announce from it the hour of prayer. The practice is kept to this day. See D'Herbelot.]

The following is part of a battle song of the Turks :"I see I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green; and cries aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee,'" &c.

9 Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. If the answers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red hot mace till properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is no sinecure; there are but two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, their hands are always full. See Relig. Ceremon. and Sale's Koran.

10 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. - [D'Herbelot supposes this title to have been a corruption of the Greek Aaboos. According to Arabian mythology, Eblis had suffered a degradation from his primeval rank for having refused to worship Adam, in conformity to the supreme command; alleging, in justification of his refusal, that himself had been formed of ethereal fire, whilst Adam was only a creature of clay. See Koran.]

11 The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these "Vroucolochias,"

Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse :
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing thern,
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father's name-
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,

Of which in life a lock when shorn
Affection's fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,

Memorial of thine agony !

Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 1
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go-and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they !2

"How name ye yon lone Caloyer?

His features I have scann'd before In mine own land: 'tis many a year, Since, dashing by the lonely shore, I saw him urge as fleet a steed As ever served a horseman's need. But once I saw that face, yet then It was so mark'd with inward pain,

I could not pass it by again;

It breathes the same dark spirit now, As death were stamp'd upon his brow.

"'Tis twice three years at summer tide

Since first among our freres he came; And here it soothes him to abide

For some dark deed he will not name. But never at our vesper prayer, Nor e'er before confession chair Kneels he, nor recks he when arise Incense or anthem to the skies, But broods within his cell alone, His faith and race alike unknown.

as he calls them. The Romaic term is "Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find that Broucolokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil. — The moderns, however, use the word I mention.

The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly attested.

[With the death of Hassan, or with his interment on the place where he fell, or with some moral reflections on his fate, we may presume that the original narrator concluded the tale of which Lord Byron has professed to give us a frag

The sea from Paynim land he crost,
And here ascended from the coast;
Yet seems he not of Othman race,
But only Christian in his face :
I'd judge him some stray renegade,
Repentant of the change he made,
Save that he shuns our holy shrine,
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine.
Great largess to these walls he brought,
And thus our abbot's favour bought;
But were I prior, not a day
Should brook such stranger's further stay,
Or pent within our penance cell
Should doom him there for aye to dwell.
Much in his visions mutters he
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea; 3
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying.
On cliff he hath been known to stand,
And rave as to some bloody hand
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb,
Invisible to all but him,
Which beckons onward to his grave,
And lures to leap into the wave.'

Dark and unearthly is the scowl 4
That glares beneath his dusky cowl:
The flash of that dilating eye
Reveals too much of times gone by;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell,
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
A spirit yet unquell'd and high,
That claims and keeps ascendency;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,

But cannot fly the gazing snake,

Will others quail beneath his look,

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook.
From him the half-affrighted Friar
When met alone would fain retire,
As if that eye and bitter smile
Transferr'd to others fear and guile :
Not oft to smile descendeth he,
And when he doth 'tis sad to see
That he but mocks at Misery.

How that pale lip will curl and quiver!
Then fix once more as if for ever;
As if his sorrow or disdain
Forbade him e'er to smile again.
Well were it so such ghastly mirth
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth.

ment. But every reader, we are sure, will agree with us in thinking, that the interest excited by the catastrophe is greatly heightened in the modern poem; and that the imprecations of the Turk against the "accursed Giaour," are introduced with great judgment, and contribute much to the dramatic effect of the narrative. The remainder of the poem, we think, would have been more properly printed as a second canto; because a total change of scene, and a chasm of no less than six years in the series of events, can scarcely fail to occasion some little confusion in the mind of the reader.GEORGE ELLIS.]

3 [" of foreign maiden lost at sea."— MS.]

4 [The remaining lines, about five hundred in number, were, with the exception of the last sixteen, all added to the poem, either during its first progress through the press, or in subsequent editions.]

But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face:
Time hath not yet the features fix'd,
But brighter traits with evil mix'd;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded :
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy

A noble soul, and lineage high:

Alas! though both bestow'd in vain,

Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain,

It was no vulgar tenement

To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted.
The roofless cot, decay'd and rent,

Will scarce delay the passer by;
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,
Demands and daunts the stranger's eye;
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!

"His floating robe around him folding,

Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ; With dread beheld, with gloom beholding

The rites that sanctify the pile. But when the anthem shakes the choir, And kneel the monks, his steps retire; By yonder lone and wavering torch His aspect glares within the porch; There will he pause till all is doneAnd hear the prayer, but utter none. See-by the half-illumined wall! His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, That pale brow wildly wreathing round, As if the Gorgon there had bound The sablest of the serpent-braid That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd: For he declines the convent oath, And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, But wears our garb in all beside; And, not from piety but pride, Gives wealth to walls that never heard Of his one holy vow nor word. Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony Peals louder praises to the sky, That livid cheek, that stony air Of mix'd defiance and despair! Saint Francis, keep hi:n from the shrine! Else may we dread the wrath divine Made manifest by awful sign.

If ever evil angel bore

The form of mortal, such he wore :
By all my hope of sins forgiven,
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!"

["Behold — as turns he from the wall."— MS.]

2 ["Must burn before it smite or shine." — MS.

3 [Seeing himself accused of having, in this passage, too closely imitated Crabbe, Lord Byron wrote to a friend — " I have read the British Review, and really think the writer in most points very right. The only mortifying thing is, the accusation of imitation. Crabbe's passage I never saw; and Scott I no further meant to follow than in his lyric measure, which is Gray's, Milton's, and any one's who likes it.


Giaour is certainly a bad character, but not dangerous; and I think his fate and his feelings will meet with few prose

To love the softest hearts are prone,
But such can ne'er be all his own;
Too timid in his woes to share,
Too meek to meet, or brave despair;
And sterner hearts alone may feel
The wound that time can never heal
The rugged metal of the mine,
Must burn before its surface shine, 2
But plunged within the furnace-flame,
It bends and melts-though still the same;
Then temper'd to thy want, or will,
'T will serve thee to defend or kill;
A breast-plate for thine hour of need,
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;
But if a dagger's form it bear,
Let those who shape its edge, beware!
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art,
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;
From these its form and tone are ta'en,
And what they make it, must remain,
But break-before it bend again.

If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share :
Even bliss-'t were woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay !
It is as if the desert-bird,+

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, Should rend her rash devoted breast, And find them flown her empty nest. The keenest pangs the wretched find

Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,

The waste of feelings unemploy'd.
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon
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,
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;-
Better to sink beneath the shock
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!


lytes." The following are the lines of Crabbe which Lord Byron is charged with having imitated :

"These are like wax-apply them to the fire,
Melting, they take the impression you desire;
Easy to mould and fashion as you please,
And again moulded with an equal ease;
Like smelted iron these the forms retain,
But once impress'd will never melt again."-
Crabbe's Works, vol. v. p. 163. ed. 1834.]

The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood.

"Father! thy days have pass'd in peace,
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer;
To bid the sins of others cease,

Thyself without a crime or care,
Save transient ills that all must bear,
Has been thy lot from youth to age;
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage
Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd,
Such as thy penitents unfold,
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest
Within thy pure and pitying breast.
My days, though few, have pass'd below
In much of joy, but more of woe;

Yet still in hours of love or strife,
I've 'scaped the weariness of life:
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes,

I loathed the languor of repose.
Now nothing left to love or hate,
No more with hope or pride elate,
I'd rather be the thing that crawls
Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls,
Than pass my dull, unvarying days,
Condemn'd to meditate and gaze.
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast
For rest-but not to feel 't is rest.
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;

And I shall sleep without the dream
Of what I was, and would be still,

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem:
My memory now is but the tomb

Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom:
Though better to have died with those
Than bear a life of lingering woes.
My spirit shrunk not to sustain
The searching throes of ceaseless pain;
Nor sought the self-accorded grave
Of ancient fool and modern knave :
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet;
And in the field it had been sweet,
Had danger woo'd me on to move
The slave of glory, not of love.
I've braved it—not for honour's boast;
I smile at laurels won or lost;
To such let others carve their way,
For high renown, or hireling pay:
But place again before my eyes
Aught that I deem a worthy prize;
The maid I love, the man I hate,
And I will hunt the steps of fate,
To save or slay, as these require,
Through rending steel, and rolling fire:
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one
Who would but do-what he hath done.
Death is but what the haughty brave,
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;


["Though Hope hath long withdrawn her beam."-MS.]


2 This superstition of a second hearing (for I never met with downright second-sight in the East) fell once under my own observation. On my third journey to Cape Colonna, early in 1811, as we passed through the defile that leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up and inquired. are in peril," he answered. "What peril? we are not now in Albania, nor in the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have not courage to be thieves."-"True, Affendi, but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears.' ""The shot! not a tophaike has been fired this morning."-" I hear it notwithstanding - Bom Bom — as plainly as I hear your

Then let Life go to him who gave:
I have not quail'd to danger's brow
When high and happy-need I now ?

"I loved her, Friar! nay, adored-
But these are words that all can use-
I proved it more in deed than word;
There's blood upon that dinted sword,
A stain its steel can never lose :
'Twas shed for her, who died for me,

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd:
Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee,
Nor midst my sins such act record;
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,
For he was hostile to thy creed !
The very name of Nazarene
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.
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, 't were 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 't is 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.
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,

"T was 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 seal'd— he knew it well,
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer,
Deep in whose darkly boding ear?
The deathshot peal'd of murder near,

As filed the troop to where they fell!

voice."—"Psha!"-" As you please, Affendi; if it is written, so will it be."-I left this quick-eared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned leisurely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the columns. I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a "Palao-castro" man? "No," said he," but these pillars will be useful in making a stand;" and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief

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 cross'd me in the fray

I gazed upon him where he lay,

And watch'd his spirit ebb away:
Though pierced ke pard by hunters' steel,
He felt not half that now I feel.

I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find
The workings of a wounded mind;
Each feature of that sullen corse
Betray'd 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
To tear one terror from the grave,
And will not soothe, and cannot save.

"The cold in clime are cold in blood,

Their love can scarce deserve the name; But mine was like a lava flood

That boils in Etna's breast of flame.

I cannot prate in puling strain

Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain:
If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 1
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,
If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain,
And daring deed, and vengeful steel,
And all that I have felt, and feel,
Betoken love-that love was mine,
And shown by many a bitter sign.
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh,
I knew but to obtain or die.

I die but first I have possess'd,

And come what may, I have been bless'd
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?
No-reft of all, yet undismay'd 2

in his troublesome faculty of fore-hearing. On our return to Athens we heard from Leoné (a prisoner set ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that, with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his having been in "villanous company," and ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native mountains. — I shall mention oce trait more of this singular race. In March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the fiftieth on the same errand) to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined: "Well, Affendi," quoth he, "may you live-you would have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive me."- Dervish, who was present, remarked as a thing of course, and of no consequence," in the mean time he will join the Klephtes" (robbers), which was true to the letter. If not cut off, they come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some town, where they are often as well known as their exploits.

["I cannot prate in puling strain

Of bursting heart and maddening brain, And fire that raged in every vein."— MS.] ["Even now alone, yet undismay'd,

I know no friend and ask no aid."— MS.]

[These, in our opinion, are the most beautiful passages of the poem; and some of them of a beauty which it would not be easy to eclipse by many citations in the language. — JEFFREY.]

[The hundred and twenty-six lines which follow, down to Tell me no more of fancy's gleam," first appeared in the fifth edition. In returning the proof to Mr. Murray, Lord

But for the thought of Leila slain, Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would I live and love again.

I grieve, but not, my holy guide!
For him who dies, but her who died:
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave —
Ah! had she but an earthly grave,

This breaking heart and throbbing head
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 3.
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 form'd the whole;
A Glory circling round the soul !
I grant my love imperfect, all
That mortals by the name miscall;
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt!
She was my life's unerring light:

That quench'd, what beam shall break my night ? 6

Oh would it shone to lead me still,
Although to death or deadliest ill!
Why marvel ye, if they who lose

This present joy, this future hope,
No more with sorrow meekly cope;
In phrensy then their fate accuse:
In madness do those fearful deeds

That seem to add but guilt to woe? Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

Hath nought to dread from outward blow;

Byron says:-" I have, but with some difficulty, not added any more to this snake of a poem, which has been lengthening its rattles every month. It is now fearfully long, being more than a canto and a half of Childe Harold. The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not often he does; and when he don't, he tells me with great energy, and I fret, and alter. I have thrown them in to soften the ferocity of our Infidel; and, for a dying man, have given him a good deal to say for himself. Do you know any body who can stop-I mean, point-commas, and so forth? for I am, I hear, a sad hand at your punctuation."

[Among the Giaour MSS. is the first draught of this passage, which we subjoin:



(doth spring

Love indeed descend
be born

A spark of that


To human hearts in mercy given, To lift from earth our low desire.

from heaven;

A feeling from the Godhead caught,

To wean from self{each} sordid thought;

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