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So throbb'd each vein-each thought-till then with-
stood;

Her own dark soul-these words at once subdued:
She totters-falls--and senseless had the wave
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave;
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,
Raise-fan-sustain-till life returns anew;
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;
Then scek Anselmo's cavern, to report

The tale too tedious-when the triumph short.

IV.

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge;
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair;
Whate'er his fate-the breasts he form'd and led
Will save him living, or appease him dead.
Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few,
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true.

V.

Within the Haram's secret chamber sate(1)
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his captive's fate;
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell,
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell;
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined
Surveys his brow-would soothe his gloom of mind:
While many an anxious glance her large dark eye
Sends in its idle search for sympathy,
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, (2)
But inly views his victim as he bleeds.

"Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest
Sits Triumph-Conrad taken-fall'n the rest!
His doom is fix'd-he dies: and well his fate
Was earn'd-yet much too worthless for thy hate:
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard—
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord!
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray-
Watch'd-follow'd-he were then an easier prey;
But once cut off-the remnant of his band
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand."

"Gulnare!--if for each drop of blood a gem
Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem;
If for each hair of his a massy mine
Of virgin ore should supplicating shine;
If all our Arab tales divulge or dream

Of wealth were here-that gold should not redeem!
It had not now redeem'd a single hour,
But that I know him fetter'd, in my power;
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill."
"Nay, Seyd!-I seek not to restrain thy rage,
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage;
My thoughts were only to secure for thee
His riches-thus released, he were not free:
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band,
His capture could but wait thy first command."

(1) The whole of this section was added in the course of printing.-L. E.

"His capture could!—and shall I then resign
One day to him-the wretch already mine?
Release my foe!-at whose remonstrance?-thine!
Fair suitor!-to thy virtuous gratitude,
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood,
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare,
No doubt-regardless if the prize were fair,
My thanks and praise alike are due-now hear!
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear:

I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard.
Borne in his arms through fire from yon serai-
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly?
Thou need'st not answer-thy confession speaks,
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks;
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware:
"Tis not his life alone may claim such care!
Another word and-nay-I need no more.
Accursed was the moment when he bore
Thee from the flames, which better far-but-no-
I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe-
Now 't is thy lord that warns-deceitful thing!
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing?
In words alone I am not wont to chafe:
Look to thyself-nor deem thy falsehood safe!"
He rose and slowly, sternly thence withdrew,
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu.
Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood-
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued;
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare!
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare.
His doubts appear'd to wrong-nor yet she knew
How deep the root from whence compassion grew—
She was a slave-from such may captives claim
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name;
Still half unconscious-heedless of his wrath,
Again she ventured on the dangerous path,
Again his rage repell'd-until arose

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes!

VI.

Meanwhile-long anxious-weary-still-the same
Roll'd day and night-his soul could terror tame-
This fearful interval of doubt and dread,
When every hour might doom him worse than dead,
When every step that echo'd by the gate
Might entering lead where axe and stake await;
When every voice that grated on his ear
Might be the last that he could ever hear;
Could terror tame-that spirit stern and high
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die;
'Twas worn-perhaps decay'd-yet silent bore
That conflict, deadlier far than all before:
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale,
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail;
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude
To pine, the prey of every changing mood;
To gaze on thine own heart; and meditate
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate-

Too late the last to shun-the first to mend-
To count the hours that struggle to thine end,
With not a friend to animate, and tell
To other ears that death became thee well;
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie,
And blot life's latest scene with calumny :

(2) The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads ar in number ninety-nine.

Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare,
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear:
But deeply feels a single cry would shame,
To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim:
The life thou leavest below, denied above
By kind monopolists of heavenly love;
And more than doubtful paradise—thy heaven
Of earthly hope thy loved one from thee riven,
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain,
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain:
And those sustain'd he-boots it well or ill?
Since not to sink beneath is something still!

VII.

The first day pass'd-he saw not her-Gulnare— The second-third-and still she came not there; Bat what her words avouch'd her charms had done, Or else he had not seen another sun.

The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might.
! Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep,
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep;
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent,
Roused by the roar of his own element!
| Oft had he ridden on that winged wave,
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave;
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear,
A long-known voice-alas! too vainly near!
Load sung the wind above; and, doubly loud,
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud;
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar,
To him more genial than the midnight star:
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain,
And hoped that peril might prove not in vain,
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd
One pitying flash to mar the form it made: (1)
His steel and impious prayer attract alike—–
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike;
Its peal wax'd fainter-ceased-he felt alone,
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan!
VIII.

The midnight pass'd-and to the massy door
A light step came-it paused-it moved once more;
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key;
Tis as his heart foreboded-that fair she!
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint,
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint;
Yet changed since last within that cell she came,
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame:
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye,
Which spoke before her accents-"Thou must die!
Yes, thou must die-there is but one resource,
The last-the worst-if tortare were not worse."

"Lady! I look to none-my lips proclaim
What last proclaim'd they-Conrad still the same:
Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare,
And change the sentence I deserve to bear?

(1) By the way-I have a charge against you. As the great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occasion, By G-d, that is my thunder-so do I exclaim, This is my lightning!' I allude to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Petrowna and the Empress, where the thought and almost expression are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of The Corsair. I, however, do not say this to accuse you, bat to except myself from suspicion; as there is a priority of six months' publication, on my part, between the ap pearance of that composition and of your tragedies."-

Well have I earn'd-nor here alone-the meed Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed."

“Why should I seek? because-Oh! didst thou not
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot?
Why should I seek? hath misery made thee blind
To the fond workings of a woman's mind?
And must I say? albeit my heart rebel

[loved.

With all that woman feels, but should not tell---
Because-despite thy crimes-that heart is moved:
It fear'd thee-thank'd thee-pitied—madden’d—
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again,
Thou lovest another-and I love in vain;
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair,
I rush through peril which she would not dare.
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear,
Were I thine own-thou wert not lonely here:
An outlaw's spouse-and leave her lord to roam!
What hath such gentle dame to do with home?
But speak not now-o'er thine and o'er my head
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread;

If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free,
Receive this poniard-rise-and follow me!"

"Ay-in my chains! my steps will gently tread,
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head!
Thou hast forgot—is this a garb for flight?
Or is that instrument more fit for fight?"

"Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard,
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward.

A single word of mine removes that chain;
Without some aid how here could I remain?
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time,
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime:
The crime 't is none to punish those of Seyd."
That hated tyrant, Conrad-he must bleed!
I see thee shudder-but my soul is changed-
Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled-and it shall be avenged-
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd—---
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd.
Yes, smile!-but he had little cause to sneer;
I was not treacherous then-nor thou too dear:
But he has said it-and the jealous well,
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel,
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell.

I never loved-he bought me--somewhat high-
Since with me came a heart he could not buy.
I was a slave unmurmuring: he hath said,
But for his rescue I with thee had fled.

'T was false, thou know'st-but let such augurs rue,
Their words are omens insult renders true.
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer;
This fleeting grace was only to prepare
New torments for thy life, and my despair.
Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still
Would fain reserve me for his lordly will:
When wearier of these fleeting charms and me,
There yawns the sack-and yonder rolls the sea!

Lord B. to Mr. Sotheby, Sept. 25, 1815.-The following are the lines in Mr. Sotheby's tragedy:---

[blocks in formation]

He knock'd, and loudly-footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;
He knock'd--but faintly-for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens-'tis a well-known face-
But not the form he panted to embrace.
Its lips are silent-twice his own essay'd,
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd;
He snatch'd the lamp-its light will answer all-
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.
He would not wait for that reviving ray-
As soon could he have linger'd there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore,
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold!

XX.

He turn'd not-spoke not-sunk not-fix'd his look,
And set the anxious frame that lately shook:
He gazed-how long we gaze despite of pain,
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain!
In life itself she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
And the cold flowers (1) her colder hand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veil'd-thought shrinks from all that lurk'd
below-

Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips-
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,
And wish'd repose-but only for a while;
But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long-fair-but spread in utter lifelessness,
Which, late the sport of every summer wind,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;
These and the pale pure cheek, became the bier-
But she is nothing-wherefore is he here?

XXI.

He ask'd no question-all were answer'd now
By the first glance on that still marble brow.
It was enough-she died-what reck'd it how?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,
The only living thing he could not hate,
Was reft at once-and he deserved his fate,
But did not feel it less;-the good explore,
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar:
The proud-the wayward-who have fix'd below
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe,
Lose in that one their all-perchance a mite—
But who in patience parts with all delight?
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn;
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost,
In smiles that least befit who wear them most.

(1) In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place a nosegay.

(2) These sixteen lines are not in the original MS.-L. E. (3) That the point of honour which is represented in one instance of Conrad's character has not been carried beyond

XXII.

By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest
The indistinctness of the suffering breast;
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one,
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none;
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest;
So feeble now-his mother's softness crept
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept:
It was the very weakness of his brain,
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flow'd-he dried them, to depart,
In helpless-hopeless-brokenness of heart:
The sun goes forth-but Conrad's day is dim;
And the night cometh-ne'er to pass from him.
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind,
On Grief's vain eye-the blindest of the blind!
Which may not-dare not-see, but turns aside
To blackest shade-nor will endure a guide!

XXIII.

His heart was form'd for softness-warp'd to wrong
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure-as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot; like that had harden'd too;
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd,
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock,
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock.
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,
Though dark the shade-it shelter'd-saved till now.
The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both,
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth:
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell;
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!

XXIV.

'Tis morn-to venture on his lonely hour
Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower.
He was not there-nor seen along the shore;
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er:
Another morn-another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount-grotto-cavern-valley search'd in vain,
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain:
Their hope revives-they follow o'er the main.
'Tis idle all-moons roll on moons away,
And Conrad comes not-came not since that day:
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair!
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside;
And fair the monument they gave his bride:
For him they raise not the recording stone-
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known;
He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. (3)

the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a brother buccaneer in the year 1814:-"Our readers have all seen the account of the enterprise against the pirates of Barrataria; but, few we believe, were informed of the situation, history, or na ture of that establishment. For the information of such as

were unacquainted with it, we have procured from a friend the following interesting narrative of the main facts, of which he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest some of our readers. Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of Mexico; it runs through a rich but very flat country, until it reaches within a mile of the Mississipi river, fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It communicates with three lakes which lie on the south-west side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and which lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and west points of this island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates, under the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of that class of the population of the state of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba; and, when the last war between France and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that island with the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony they entered the United States, the most of them the state of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor of that State of the clause in the Constitution which forbad the importatist of slaves; but, at the same time, received the assurance of the Governor that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the General Government for their retaining this property. The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 deg. 15 min., long. 92. 30.; and is as remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell fish with which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana; and to break up the establishment he thought proper to strike at the bead. He therefore offered a reward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known to the mhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his immediate connection, and his once having been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. This company, under the command of a man who had been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, approached very near to the fortified island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed men, who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed his few noble traits; for to this man, who had come to destroy his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his life, bat offered him that which would have made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days; which was indignantly refused. He then, with the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that this band of pirates was Dot to be taken by land. Our naval force having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment could not be expected from them antil augmented; for an officer of the navy, with most of the gin-boats on that station, had to retreat from an overwbelining force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation | of the navy authorised an attack, one was made; the overthrow of this banditti has been the result; and, now this almost invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the Government will hold it by a strong military force."-American Newspaper.

la Noble's continuation of Grainger's Biographical Dictiosory there is a singular passage in his account of Archbishop Black bourne, and, as in some measure connected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it:-"There is something mys| terious in the history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but imperfectly known; and report has even asserted that he was a buccaneer; and that one of his

brethren in that profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, he is Archbishop of York. We are informed that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he became dean; and in 1714 held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Blackbourne certainly was? He who had so perfect a knowledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek tragedians), as to be able to read them with the same case as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages, and have had both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. is allowed to have been a pleasant man; this however was turned against him, by its being said, he gained more hearts than souls.'"

He

"The only voice that could soothe the passions of the savage (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable and virtuous wife, the sole object of his love; the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. Her dying words sunk deep into his memory; his fierce spirit melted into tears; and after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human life."-Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 473.

["In The Corsair, Lord Byron first felt himself at full liberty; and then all at once he shows the unbroken stream of his native eloquence, of rapid narrative, of vigorous and intense, yet unforced, imagery, sentiment, and thought; of extraordinary elasticity, transparency, purity, ease, and harmony of language; of an arrangement of words, never trite, yet always simple and flowing;-in such a perfect expression of ideas, always impressive, generally pointed, frequently passionate, and often new, that it is perspicuity itself, with not a superfluous word, and not a word out of its natural place. It is strange that he who was so young, who had led a life of adventure more than of study, nay, who had often seemed a good deal encumbered in his phraseology, could all at once arrive at this excellence. It must have been the exaltation of spirit caused by temporary and unexpected favour, which, by removing the gloom from his heart, imparted extraordinary vigour to his intellect." Sir E. Brydges.-L. E.

"The Corsair is written in the regular heroic couplet, with a spirit, freedom, and variety of tone, of which, notwithstanding the example of Dryden, we scarcely believed that measure susceptible. It was yet to be proved that this, the most ponderous and stately verse in our language, could be accommodated to the variations of a tale of passion and of pity, and to all the breaks, starts, and transitions of an adven turous and dramatic narration. This experiment Lord Byron has made, with equal boldness and success; and has satisfied us, that the oldest and most respectable measure that is known amongst us is at least as flexible as any other, and capable, in the hands of a master, of vibrations as strong and rapid as those of a lighter structure." Jeffrey.-L. E.

"To the safe and shop-resorting inhabitants of Christendom, The Corsair seems to present many improbabilities; nevertheless it is true to nature, and in every part of the Levant the traveller meets with individuals whose air and physiognomy remind him of Conrad. The incidents of the story also, so wild and extravagant to the snug and legal notions of England, are not more in keeping with the character than they are in accordance with fact and reality." Gall.-P. E.]

Lara;

A TALE. (1)

CANTO I.

I.

THE serfs (2) are glad through Lara's wide domain,
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped but unforgotten lord,
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far-checkering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.

The chief of Lara is return'd again :
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself;-that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!-
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;

(1) Between the publication of The Corsair and Lara Lord Byron adopted the most extraordinary resolution that, perhaps, ever entered into the mind of an author of any celebrity. Annoyed at the tone of disparagement in which his assailants-not content with blackening his moral and social character-now affected to speak of his genius, and somewhat mortified, there is reason to believe, by finding that his own friends dreaded the effects of constant publications on his ultimate fame, he came to the determination, not only to print no more in future, but to purchase back the whole of his past copyrights, and suppress every line he had ever written. With this view, on the 29th of April, he actually enclosed his publisher a draft for the money. "For all this," he said, "it might be as well to assign some reason I have none to give, except my own caprice, and I do not consider the circumstance of consequence enough to require explanation." An appeal, however, from Mr. Murray, to his good-nature and considerateness, brought, in eight-and-forty hours, the following reply:-"If your present note is serious, and it really would be inconvenient, there is an end of the matter: tear my draft, and go on as usual: that I was perfectly serious, in wishing to suppress all future publication, is true; but certainly not to interfere with the convenience of others, and more particularly your own."

The following passages in his Diary depict the state of Lord Byron's mind at this period:-"Murray has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, he is lucky in having such a poet'-something as if one was a pack horse, or ass, or any thing that is his;' or like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on Razors, Laws, sir, we keeps a poet.' The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript-The Harold and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame! and, after all, 'quite as good as any other 'life in others' breath.' 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah Glasse or Hannah More."-" March 17th, Redde the Quarrels of Authors, a new work, by that most entertaining and researching writer, D'Israeli. They seem to be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat.' What the

Then when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone. (3)
·III.

And Lara left in youth his father-land;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;

devil had I to do with scribbling? It is too late to inquire. and all regret is useless. But an' it were to do again -1 should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, st least my share of it;-though I shall think better of myself if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that wife has a son, I will bring up mine beir in the most anti-poetical way-make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or anything. Rat if he writes too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and will cut him off with a bank token."-" April 19. I will keep no further journal; and, to prevent me from returning. like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remain- ¦ ing leaves of this volume. Oh fool! I shall go mad.'*

These extracts are from the Diary of March and April. Before the end of May he had begun the composition of Lara, which has been almost universally considered as the continuation of The Corsair. This poem was published | anonymously in the following August, in the same volume with Mr. Rogers's elegant tale of Jacqueline; an unnatural and unintelligible conjunction, which, however, gave rise to some pretty good jokes. "I believe," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters, "I told you of Larry and Jacquy. A friend of mine-at least a friend of his-was reading said ! Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A passenger took up the book, and queried as to the author. The proprietor said, there were two;'-to which the answer of the unknown was, Ay, ay,-a joint concern, I suppose, summot like Sternhold and Hopkins.' Is not this excellent? I would not have missed the vile comparison' to have escaped being the Arcades ambo et cantare pares.'"-L. E.

(2) The reader is apprised, that the name of Lara being Spanish, and no circumstance of local and natural description fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the word 'serf,' which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of our fictitious chieftain.-[Lord Byron elsewhere intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief of the Morea. -L.E.]

"The name only is Spanish; the country is not Spain, but the Morea." Lord B. to Mr. M. July 24.-P. E.

(3) "Lord Byron's own tale is partly told in this section." Sir Walter Scott.-L. E.

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