But he is dead! within the dell Or farther with thee bear my soul "Such is my name, and such my tale. I breath the sorrows I bewail, And thank thee for the generous tear He pass'd-nor of his name and race Of her he lov'd, or him he slew. The circumstance to which the above story relates was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's supposed infidelity; he asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night! One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so sudden "a wrench from all we know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffeehouse story-tellers, who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and interpolations by the translator will be easily distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery; and I regret that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original. For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, and, as Mr Weber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials; some of his incidents are to be found in the "Bibliotheque Orientale;" but for correctness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it; his "Happy Valley" will not bear a comparison with the "Hall of Eblis."-B. THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS; A TURKISH TALE. "Had we never loved so kindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted."-BURNS. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND, BYRON. K THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. CANTO THE FIRST. I. KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine: Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute: Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? "Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?t Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. II. Begirt with many a gallant slave, Deep thought was in his aged eye; His pensive cheek and pondering brow III. "Let the chamber be clear'd."-The train disappear'd Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." "Gal," the rose.-B. "Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, With whom revenge is virtue."-YOUNG's Revenge.-B. With Giaffir is none but his only son, And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. "Pacha! to hear to obey." First lowly rendering reverence meet; 86 Father, for fear that thou shouldst chide Know-for the fault, if fault there be, That let the old and weary sleep I could not; and to view alone The fairest scenes of land and deep, With none to listen and reply To thoughts with which my heart beat high In sooth I love not solitude; I on Zuleika's slumber broke, And, as thou knowest that for me And made earth, main, and heaven our own! Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : Nay, Father, rage not--nor forget That none can pierce that secret bower IV. "Son of a slave"--the Pacha said "From unbelieving mother bred, Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia.-B. † Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, and twilight.-B. Vain were a father's hope to see Thou see'st yon bow-it hath a string!" V. No sound from Selim's lip was heard, Son of a slave!--and who my sire?" Thus held his thoughts their dark career; And glances ev'n of more than ire Flash forth, then faintly disappear. Old Giaffir gazed upon his son And started; for within his eye He read how much his wrath had done; "Come hither, boy-what, no reply? That eye returned him glance for glance, And proudly to his sire's was raised, Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance— And why-he felt, but durst not tell. "Much I misdoubt this wayward boy Will one day work me more annoy: I never loved him from his birth, And-but his arm is little worth, |