Burst forth in one wild cry-and all was still."
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave!
Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst!
That grief-though deep-though fatal-was thy first!
Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse!
And, oh! that pang where more than Madness lies
The worm that will not sleep-and never dies;
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light,
That winds around, and tears the quivering heart!
Ah! wherefore not consume it-and depart!
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief!

Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head,
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread:
By that same hand Abdallah-Selim bled.

Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief:
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed,
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed,
Thy Daughter's dead!

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam,
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream.

What quench'd its ray ?-the blood that thou hast shed!
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair:

"Where is

"Where?

998

XXVIII.

Within the place of thousand tombs

That shine beneath, while dark above

The sad but living cypress glooms

And withers not, though branch and leaf

Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,

Like early unrequited Love,

One spot exists, which ever blooms,

8 "I came to the place of my birth, 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, p. 67, of "The Pleasures of Memory;" a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous: but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur.

Ev'n in that deadly grove

A single rose is shedding there
Its lonely lustre, meek and pale :
It looks as planted by Despair—

So white so faint-the slightest gale
Might whirl the leaves on high;

And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem-in vainTo-morrow sees it bloom again! The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears;

For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unshelter'd by a bower;

Nor droops, though Spring refuse her shower, Nor woos the summer beam:

To it the livelong night there sings

A bird unseen-but not remote: Invisible his airy wings,

But soft as harp that Houri strings

His long entrancing note!

It were the Bulbul; but his throat,

Though mournful, pours not such a strain :

For they who listen cannot leave

The spot, but linger there and grieve,

As if they loved in vain!

And yet so sweet the tears they shed,

'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread,

They scarce can bear the morn to break
That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well!

But when the day-blush bursts from high

Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe,
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,
Yet harsh be they that blame,)
That note so piercing and profound

Will shape and syllable' its sound
Into Zuleika's name.

"Tis from her cypress summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word:
"Tis from her lowly virgin earth

That white rose takes its tender birth.
There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed-the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep fixed pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell;
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave:
And there by night, reclin'd, 'tis said,
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:

And hence extended by the billow,
"Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!"
Where first it lay that mourning flower
Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!

9 "And airy tongues that syllable men's names."-MILTON.

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven (see "Orford's Reminiscences"), and many other instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see "Orford's Letters."

THE CORSAIR:

A TALE.

"I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." TASSO, Gerusalemme Liberata, canto x.