They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. CLXXXII.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee[they? Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts :-not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers--they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy name-as I do here.

CLXXXV.

My task is done-my song hath ceased-my Has died into an echo; it is fit [theme The spell should break of this protracted dream.

The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit My midnight lamp-and what is writ, is writWould it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been-and my visions flit Less palpably before me--and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

CLXXXVI.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been

[well! A sound which makes us linger;-yet, fareYe, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain

He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain, If such there were-with you, the moral of his strain.

Blooms blushing to her lover's tale :
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows,
Far from the winters of the West,
By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by nature given
In softest incense back to heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
And many a shade that love might share,
And many a grotto meant for rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow,
Till the gay mariner's guitar *

Is heard, and seen the evening star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.

Strange that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for Gods, a dwelling-place,
And every grace and charm hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fix'd,
There man, enamour'd of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woes him-but to spare!
Strange-that where all is peace beside,
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign,
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,
And, fix'd on heavenly thrones,
The freed inheritors of hell;
So soft the scene, so form'd for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy!

should [dwell

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 mark'd the mild angelic air-
The rapture of repose that's there-
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor 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 ↑

The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing.

+Ay, but to die, to go we know not where,
To lie in cold obstruction.

Measure for Measure, Act iii. Sc. 1.

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 seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd !*
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 pass'd away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth[earth!

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd
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,
O 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 ;
Snatch 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!

⚫ I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted in description: but those who have, will probably retain a painful remenabrance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few ex ceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but a few hours, after the spirit is not there. It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gunshot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character; but in death from a stab, the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the last.

"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 villain-bonds and despot sway. What can he tell who treads thy shore? No legend of thine olden time,

No theme on which the muse might soar, High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave,
And callous, save to crime;
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast.
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;
In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renown'd.
In vain might Liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke,

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke :
No more her sorrows I bewail,
Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,
Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote; And fearful for his light caïque, He shuns the near but doubtful creek: Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Porte Leone's safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night.

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?
Beneath the clattering iron's sound
The cavern'd echoes wake around
In lash for lash and bound for bound;
The foam that streaks the courser's side,
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide :
Though weary waves are sunk to rest,
There's none within his rider s breast;
And though to-morrow's teinpest lower,
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!
I know thee not, I loathe thy race,
But in thy lineaments I trace

Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women), who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eunuch-these are not polite, yet true appellations-now governs the governor of Athens.

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.

On-on he hasten'd, and he drew
My gaze of wonder as he flew :
Though like a demon of the night
He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight;
His aspect and his air impress'd
A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear,
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;
He winds around; he hurries by ;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee;
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along; but ere he pass'd
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last,
A moment check'd his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood-
Why looks he o'er the olive wood?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,

The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still;
Thou too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike,*
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun;
To-night, the Bairam feast's begun ;
To-night-but who and what art thou
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou shouldst either pause or flee?

He stood-some dread was on his face,
Soon Hatred settled in its place :
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient Anger's hasty blush,
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed;
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly;
Impatient of his flight delay'd,
Here loud his raven charger neigh'd-
Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his

blade;

That sound had burst his waking dream,
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream.
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;
Away, away, for life he rides:

* 'Tophaike,' musket.-The Bairam is announced by the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the Mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night.

Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed *
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more;
The crag is won, no more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd;
'Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued:
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years:
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in Time's record nearly nought,
It was Eternity to Thought!
For infinite as boundless space

The thought that Conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend
Woe without name, or hope, or end.

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone;
And did he fly or fall alone?
Woe to that hour he came or went!
The curse of Hassan's sin was sent
To turn a palace to a tomb :

He came, he went, like the Simoom, t
That harbinger of fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath
The very cypress droops to death-
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead!

The steed is vanish'd from the stall;
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;
The lonely spider's thin grey pall
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall;
The bat builds in his Haram bower,
And in the fortress of his power
The owl usurps the beacon-tower;
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,
With baffled thirst, and famine grim;
For the stream has shrunk from its marble
bed,
[spread.
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are
'Twas sweet of yore to see it play,
And chase the sultriness of day,
As springing high the silver dew
In whirls fantastically flew,

And flung luxurious coolness round
The air, and verdure o'er the ground.
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were
To view the wave of watery light,
And hear its melody by night.

bright,

Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is darted from horseback with great force and precision. It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans.

The blast of the desert, fatal to everything living, and often alluded to in Eastern poetry.

And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd
Around the verge of that cascade;
And oft upon his mother's breast
That sound had harmonized his rest;
And oft had Hassan's Youth along
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song;
And softer seem'd each melting tone
Of Music mingled with its own.
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose
Along the bank at Twilight's close:
The stream that fill'd that font is fled-
The blood that warm'd his heart is shed!
And here no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice.
The last sad note that swell'd the gale
Was woman's wildest funeral wail:
That quench'd in silence, all is still,

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill;

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,
No hand shall close its clasp again.
On desert sands 'twere joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow-man,
So here the very voice of Grief
Might wake an Echo like relief-

At least 'twould say, 'All are not gone;
There lingers Life, though but in one'
For many a gilded chamber's there,
Which Solitude might well forbear;
Within that dome as yet Decay

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way-
But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate,
Nor there the Fakir's self will wait;
Nor there will wandering Dervise stay,
For bounty cheers not his delay;
Nor there will weary stranger halt
To bless the sacred 'bread and salt.'
Alike must Wealth and Poverty
Pass heedless and unheeded by,
For Courtesy and Pity died

With Hassan on the mountain side.
His roof, that refuge unto men,

Is Desolation's hungry den.

labour,

The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from [sabre! + Since his turban was cleft by the Infidel's

To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your host, ensures the safety of the guest: even though an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred.

I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are the first duties enjoined by Mohammed; and to say truta, very generally practised by his disciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a panegyric on his bounty; the next, on his valour.

The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the bett, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold.

§ Green is the privileged colour of the Prophet's numerous pretended descendants; with them, as here, faith (the family