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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,
A shrivell’d scroll, a scatter'd leaf,
Seard by the autumn blast of grief!


“ Tell me no more of fancy's gleam,

No, father, no, 'twas not a dream
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ;
But could not, for my burning brow
Throbb'd to the very brain as now :
I wish'd but for a single tear,
As something welcome, new, and dear:
I wish'd it then, I wish it still ;
Despair is stronger than my will.
Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not, if I might, be blest ;
I want no paradise, but rest.
Twas then, I tell thee, father! then
I saw her; yes, she lived again ;
And shining in her white symar, (*)
As through yon pale gray cloud the star
Which now


gaze on, as on her,
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ;
Dimly I view its trembling spark;
To-morrow's night shall be more dark ;
And I, before its rays appear,
That lifeless thing the living fear.
I wander, father! for my soul
Is fleeting towards the final goal.
I saw her, friar! and I rose
Forgetful of our former woes;
And rushing from my couch, I dart,
And clasp her to my desperate heart;
I clasp - what is it that I clasp?
No breathing form within my grasp,

(1) “ Symar," a shroud.

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No heart that beats reply to mine,
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine !
And art thou, dearest, changed so much,
As meet my eye, yet



Ah! were thy beauties eer so cold,
I care not; so my arms enfold
The all they ever wish'd to hold.
Alas! around a shadow prest,
They shrink upon my lonely breast;
Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands,
And beckons with beseeching hands!
With braided hair, and bright-black eye
I knew 'twas false she could not die !
But he is dead! within the dell
I saw him buried where he fell ;
He comes not, for he cannot break
From earth ; why then art thou awake?
They told me wild waves rollid above
The face I view, the form I love;
They told me -'twas a hideous tale !
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail :
If true, and from thine ocean-cave
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave,
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er
This brow that then will burn no more ;
Or place them on my hopeless heart:
But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art,
In mercy ne'er again depart!
Or farther with thee bear my soul,
Than winds can waft or waters roll !


“ Such is my name, and such my

Confessor! to thy secret ear
I breathe the sorrows I bewail,

And thank thee for the generous tear
This glazing eye could never shed.
Then lay me with the humblest dead,
And, save the cross above my head,
Be neither name nor ernblem spread,
By prying stranger to be read,
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread.”

He pass'd

-- nor of his name and race Hath left a token or a trace,

Save what the father must not say
Who shrived him on his dying day:
This broken tale was all we knew
Of her he loved, or him he slew. (')

11) Tho 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 coffee-house 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 io 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.”





“ Had we never loved so kindly,

Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted."


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