Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Egripo-the Negropont. According to the proverb, the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in posses-Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective

Note 27. Page 151, line 18.

And by her Comboloio lies.

« Comboloio»--a Turkish rosary. The MSS., particularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter ignorance; but many of the Turkish girls are highly accomplished, though not actually qualified for a Christian coterie; perhaps some of our own «< blues» might not be the worse for bleaching.

«

Note 28. Page 151, line 96.

In him was some young Galiongée. Galiongée»-or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. Their dress is picturesque; and I have seen the Captain Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are generally naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with silver, are those of an Arnaut robber, who was my host (he had quitted the profession), at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the Morea; they were plated in scales one over the other, like the back of an armadillo.

Note 29. Page 152, line 18.

So may the Koran verse display'd.

Note 37. Page 153, line 95.

Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam.
This first of voyages is one of the few with which the
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance.

Note 38. Page 153, line 96.

Or only know on land the Tartar's home.

The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain sometimes the name of the place of their manufacture, but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst those in my possession is one with a blade of singular construction; it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what possible use such a figure could add: he said, in Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussul-mans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern mans had an idea that those of this form gave a severer wound; and liked it because it was « piu feroce.»> I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its peculiarity.

Note 30. Page 153, line 33.

Bat like the nephew of a Cain.

The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turko

travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself can-
not be denied. A young French renegado confessed to
Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, gal-
loping in the desert, without a sensation approaching to
rapture, which was indescribable.

Note 39. Page 153, line 116.
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour.

<< Jannat al Aden,» the perpetual abode, the Mussulman Paradise.

Note 40. Page 155, line 78.

And moura'd above bis turban-stone.

A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men

It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew; indeed the former profess to be much better acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our own Sacred writ, and not content with Adam, they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. only. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their language. It is therefore no violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem.

Note 31. Page 152, line 49.

And Paswan's rebel hordes attest.

Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last years of his life set the whole power of the Porte at

defiance.

Note 32. Page 152, line 61. They gave their horsetails to the wind. Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha.

Note 33. Page 152, line 74.

He drank one draught, nor needed more!

Note 41. Page 155, line 87.

The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear.

The death-song of the Turkish women. The « silent slaves» are the men whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public.

Note 42. Page 155, line 123.

Where is my child?—an echo answers- Where? • «I came to the place of my Lirth and cried, the friends of my youth, where are they? and an Echo answered, 'where are they?»

From an Arabic MS.

The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader-it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of « The Pleasures of Memory;» a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous; but to whose pages all

Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not will be delighted to recur.

то

THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

MY DEAR MOORE,

after my own heart: Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure certainly; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaint-part of my present and will be of my future regret, ance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your Imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but wildness, tenderness, and originality are part of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians.

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable?-Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but for some years to come it is my intention to tempt no further the award of «Gods, men, nor columns.» In the present composition I have attempted not the most cafe nit, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though I confess, it is the measure most

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so-if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of « drawing from self,» the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than «The Giaour,>> and perhaps—but no-I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever « alias» they please.

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself,

most truly, and affectionately, his obedient servant, BYRON.

January 2, 1814.

CANTO I.

•———nessun maggior dolore.
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria,

DANTE.

«O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway--
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and case!

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye of enterprise;
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil,
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil :
No matter where-their chief's allotment this,
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss.
But who that CHIEF? his name on every shore
Is famed and fear'd-they ask and know no more.
With these he mingles not but to command;
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,
But they forgive his silence for success.
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill,

That goblet passes him untasted still-
And for his fare-the rudest of his crew
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too;
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots,
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits,

His short repast in humbleness supply

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny.

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,

Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot please-His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence.
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint-can only feel-
Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?

Steer to that shore!»-they sail. « Do this!»-'tis done :
Now form and follow me!»-the spoil is won.
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,
And all obey and few inquire his will;
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.

No dread of death-if with us die our foes-
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will-we snatch the life of life;
When lost-what recks it-by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamoured of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath; and shake his palsied head;
Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at Jength divide the prey,
And ery, remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now !»

II.

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle,
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while;
Such were the sounds that thrilled the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seemed a song!
In scattered groups upon the golden sand,
They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand;
Select the arms-to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine:
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the shore,
For the wild bird the busy springes set,
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net;

III.

« A sail!—a sail!»-a promised prize to hope!
Her nation-flag-how speaks the telescope?
No prize, alas!-but yet a welcome sail :
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.
Yes-she is ours-a home returning bark---
Blow fair, thou breeze!-she anchors ere the dark.
Already doubled is the cape-our bay
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.
How gloriously her gallant course she goes!
Her white wings flying-never from her foes--
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Who would not brave the battle-fire-the wreck-
To move the monarch of her peopled deck?

IV.

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings;
The sails are furl'd; and anchoring round she swings.
And gathering loiterers on the land discern
Her boat descending from the latticed stern.
'Tis mann'd-the oars keep concert to the strand,
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.
Hail to the welcome shout!--the friendly speech!
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;
The smile, the question, and the quick reply,
And the heart's promise of festivity!

V.

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd:
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud,
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard-
Friends-husbands'-lovers' names in each dear word
«Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success-
But shall we see them? will their accents bless?
From where the battle roars-the billows chafe---
They doubtless boldly did-but who are safe'