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Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from cue
Who would but do-what he hath done.
Death is but what the haughty brave,
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;
Then let Life go to Him who gave :
I have not quail'd to danger's brow
When high and happy-need I now?




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"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 creedThe very name of Nazarene Was wornwood 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 pray ; And if it dares enough, 'twere hard If passion met not some rewardNo 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. 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 enthral; 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 mayst 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!
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 like pard by hunter's 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;

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. "We 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 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 reli ed the intelligence. We all 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, Arnaut, 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 columia I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a "Palac-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 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 II. 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 being in "villanous company," and ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say he is now hearing more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refreshment of the Arnauts of Berat, and his native mountains.-I shall mention one trait more of this singular race. In March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaut 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 their exploits.

But mine was like the 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,
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
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.
She was a form of life and light,
That, seen, became a part of sight;
And rose, where'er I turn'd 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 miscali;
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!
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 deels

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

Hath nought to dread from outward blow
Who falls from all he knows of bliss,
Cares little into what abyss.
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now
To thee, old man, my deeds appear:
I read abhorrence on thy brow,

And this too was I born to bear!
'Tis true, that like that bird of prey,
With havoc have I mark'd my way:
But this was taught me by the dove,
To die-and know no second love.
This lesson yet hath man to learn,
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:
The bird that sings within the brake,
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.
And let the fool still prone to range,
And sneer on all who cannot change,
Partake his jest with boasting boys;
I envy not his varied joys,

But deem such feeble, heartless man,
Less than yon solitary swan;
Far, far beneath the shallow maid
He left believing and betray'd.
Such shame at least was never mine-
Leila! each thought was only thine!
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,
My hope on high-my all below.
Earth holds no other like to thee,
Or, if it doth, in vain for me:
For worlds I dare not view the dame
Resembling thee, yet not the same.
The very crimes that mar my youth,
This bed of death-attest my truth!
Tis all too late-thou wert, thou art
The cherish'd madness of my heart!

"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, abhorr'd all place,
Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face,
Where every hue that charm'd 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 seest I soon shall part from hence:
And if thy holy tale were true,
The deed that's done, canst thou undo?

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Think me not thankless-but this grief
Looks not to priesthood for relief.*
My soul's estate in secret guess :
But wouldst thou pity more, say less.
When thou canst 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 calm the lonely lioness:
But soothe not-mock not my distress!

"In earlier days, and calmer hours,

When heart with heart delights to blend,
Where bloom my native valley's bowers,
I had-Ah! have I now?-a friend!
To him this pledge I charge thee send,
Memorial of a youthful vow;
I would remind him of my end:

Though souls absorb'd like mine allow
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim,
Yet dear to him my blighted name.
'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom,

And I have smiled-I then could smile-
When Prudence would his voice assume,

And warn-I reck'd not what-the while :
But now remembrance whispers o'er
Those accents scarcely mark'd before.
Say that his bodings came to pass,

And he will start to hear their truth,
And wish his words had not been sooth:
Tell him, unheeding as I was,

Through many a busy bitter scene
Of all our golden youth had been,
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory ere I died;
But Heaven in wrath would turn away,
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.
I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
And what have I to do with fame,?
I do not ask him not to mourn,
Such cold request might sound like scorn,
And what than friendship's manly tear
May better grace a brother's bier?
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him-what thou dost behold!
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,
The wrack by passion left behind,

• The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), and was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers.-B.

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