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Minotti lifted his aged eye,
The turban's victors, the Christian band,
In one wild roar expired!
The shatter'd town-the walls thrown down
The waves a moment backward bent
The hills that shake, although unrent,
As if an earthquake pass'd Contain'd the dead of ages gone;
The thousand shapeless things all driven Their names were on the graven floor,
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, But now illegible with gore;
By that tremendous blast The carved crests, and curious hues,
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er The varied marble's veins diffuse,
On that too long afflicted shore: Were smear'd, and slippery-stain'd, and strown Up to the sky like rockets go With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: All that mingled there below: There were dead above, and the dead below Many a tall and goodly man, Lay cold in many a coffin'd row;
Scorch'd and shrivell’d to a span, You might see them piled in sable state,
When he fell to earth again By a pale light through a gloomy grate;
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : But War had enter'd their dark caves,
Down the ashes shower like rain; And stored along the vaulted graves
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkle Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread
With a thousand circling wrinkles; In masses by the fleshless dead :
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, Here, throughout the siege, had been
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay; The Christians' chiefest magazine;
Christian or Moslem, which be they? To these a late-form'd train now led,
Let their mothers see and say ! Minotti's last and stern resource
When in cradled rest they lay, Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.
And each nursing mother smiled
On the sweet sleep of her child,
Little deem'd she such a day
Would rend those tender limbs away. To strive, and those must strive in vain :
Not the matrons that them bore For lack of further lives, to blake
Could discern their offspring more; The thirst of vengeance now awake,
That one moment left no trace With barbarous blows they gash the dead,
More of human form or face, And lop the already lifeless head,
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone: And fell the statues from their niche,
And down came blazing rafters, strown And spoil the shrines of offerings rich,
Around, and many a falling stone, And from each other's rude hands wrest
Deeply dinted in the clay, The silver vessels saints had bless'd.
All blacken'd there and reeking lay.. To the high altar on they go ;
All the living things that heard Oh, but it made a glorious show!
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd; On its table still behold
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs filed, The cup of consecrated gold;
And howling left the unburied dead; Massy and deep, a glittering prize,
The camels from their keepers broke ; Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes:
The distant steer forsook the yoke That morn it held the holy wine,
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, "Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; Which his worshippers drank at the break of day The bullfrog's note, from out the marsh, To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh Still a few drops within it lay;
The wolves yellid on the cavern'd hill, And round the sacred table glow
Where echo roll'd in thunder still; Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row,
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, 10 From the purest metal cast;
Bay'd from afar complainingly, A spoil--the richest, and the last.
With a mix'd and mournful sound,
Like crying babe, and beaten hound:
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast,
The eagle left his rocky nest, To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd,
And mounted nearer to the sun, When old Minotti's hand
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun; Touch'd with the torch the train
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, "Tis fired!
And made him higher soar and shriekSpire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,
Thus was Corinth lost and won !
NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.
6. The Turcoman hath left his herd.
Was it the wind, through some hollovo stone. Page 166, line 38.
Page 169, line 37. The life of the Turcomans is wandering and pa- I must here acknowledge a close, though uninkiarcbal: they dwell in tents.
tentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge,
called " Christabel." It was not till after these 2.
lines were written that I heard that wild and singuCoumourgi-he whose closing scene. larly original and beautiful poem recited; and the
Page 167, line 57. MS. of that production I never saw till very recentAli Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, and ly, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelo- I hope, is convinced that I have not been a'wilful ponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was
plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains mortally wounded in the next, against the Ger- above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope
to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed mans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain that he will not longer delay the publication of a of Carlowitz.) in Hungary, endeavoring to rally his guards. He died of his wounds, next day. His production, of which I can only add my mite of aplast order was the decapitation of General Breuner, probation to the applause of far more competent and some other German prisoners: and his lasi judges. words, “Oh that I could thus serve all the Chris
7. tian dogs!” a speech and act not unlike one of There is a light cloud by the moon. Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition
Page 171, line 61. and unbounded presumption : on being told that I have been told that the idea expressed from Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, “was a great lines 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose general,” he said, “I shall become a greater, and approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is at his expense."
not orignal-at least not mine; it may be found 3.
much better expressed in pages 182-3-4 of the EngThere shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea.
lish version of Mathete (1-forget the precise page
of the French,) a work to which I have before re Page 169, line 91.
ferred, and never recur to, or read, without a reThe reader need hardly be reminded that there newal of gratification. are no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean.
The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground, and the 4.
Page 171, line 106. And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiter skull.
The horsetail fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's stand
ard. Page 170, line 8.
9. This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople,
And since the day when in the strait. in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the
Page 172, line 98. rock, a narrow terrace of which projects between
In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Darda. the wall and the water. I think the fact is also nelles between the Venetians and the Turks. mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies were probably those of some refractory Janizaries.
The jackals troop, in gather'd cry. 5.
Page 174, line 109. And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair.
I believe I have taken a poetical license to transPage 170, line 60.
plant the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw
nor heard these animals; but among the ruins of This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They that Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. haunt ruins, and follow armics.
SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ.
THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP January 22, 1816.
The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's “Antiquities of the House of Brunswick."-I am aware, that in modern imes the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of doetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the continent. The following extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical.
“Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisini, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty; if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of justice of a parent."Gibbon's Miscellaneoue Works, vol. iii. p. 470, new edition.
The nightingale's high note is heard ; It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seer sweet in every whisper'd word: And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
quick. There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : A moment more and they shall meet 'Tis past-her lover's at her feet 1
Of aught around, above, beneath ;
They only for each other breathe.
Their very sighs are full of joy
So deep, that did it not decay, That happy madness would destroy
The hearts which feel its fiery sway: Of guilt, of peril, do they decm In that tumultuous tender dream? Who that have felt that passion's power, Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? Or thought how brief such moments last ? But yet-they are already past! Alas! we must awake before We know such vision comes no more.
And whose that name? 'tis Hugo's,-his
The spot of guilty gladness past;
As if that parting were the last.
The lip that there would cling for ever,
The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, As if each calmly conscious star Beheld her frailty from afarThe frequent sigh, the long embrace, Yet binds them to their trysting-place; But it must come, and they must part In fearful heaviness of heart, With all the deep and shuddering chill Which follows fast the deeds of ill.
But sheath'd it ere the point was bare -
He could not slay a thing so fair
At least, not smiling-sleeping-thereNay more :-he did not wake her then,
But gazed upon her with a glance
Which, had she roused her from her trance, Had frozen her sense to sleep againAnd o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. She spake no more-but still she slumber'dWhile, in his thought, her days are number'd
To covet there another's bride;
A husband's trusting heart beside.
And mutters she in her unrest
And clasps her lord unto the breast
VIII. And with the morn he sought, and found, In many a tale from those around, The proof of all he fear'd to know, Their present guilt, his future wo: The long-conniving damsels seek
To save themselves, and would transfer
The guilt-the shame the doom-to her:
Within the chamber of his state,
Upon his throne of judgment sate;
Before a father's face!
And listen'd to each broken word:
As if the Archangel's voice he heard ?
And dashes on the pointed rock The wretch who sinks to rise no more, So came upon his soul the shock.
And still, and pale, and silently
Did Parisina wait her doom;
Glanced gladness round the glittering room Where high-born men were proud to wait Where Beauty watch'd to imitate
Her gentle voice-her lovely mien-
Now,-what is she? and what are they?
XIII. Can she command, or these obey?
And hcre stern Azo hid his face All silent and unheeding now,
For on his brow the swelling vein With downcast eyes and knitting brow,
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain And folded arms, and freezing air,
The hot blood ebb’d and flow'd again ; And lips that scarce their scorn forbear,
And therefore bow'd he for a space, Her knights, and dames, her court-is there. And pass'd his shaking hand along And he, the chosen one, whose lance
His eye, to veil it from the throng; Had yet been couch'd before her glance,
While Hugo raised his chained hands. Who-were his arm a moment free
And for a brief delay demands Had died or gain'd her liberty;
His father's ear: the silent sire
Forbids not what his words require.
“It is not that I dread the deathLess for her own despair than him:
For thou hast seen me by thy side Those lids--o'er which the violet vein
All redly through the battle ride, Wandering, leaves a tender stain,
And that not once a useless brand Shining through the smoothest white
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, That e'er did softest kiss invite
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, Now seem'd with hot and livid glow
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: To press, not shade, the orbs below;
Theu gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, Which glance so heavily, and fill,
A gift for which I thank thee not:
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot,
Her offspring's heritage of shame;
But she is in the grave, where he,
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be,
Her broken heart—my sever'd head
Shall witness for thee from the dead
How trusty and how tender were
Thy youthful love-paternal care. He would not shrink before the crowd;
"Tis true, that I have done thee wrongBut yet he dared not look on her:
But wrong for wrong :-this, deem'd thy brida Remembrance of the hours that were
The other victim of thy pride, His guilt-his love his present state
Thou know'st for me was destined long. His father's wrath-all good men's hate
Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms His earthly, his eternal fate
And with thy very crime my birth, And her's, oh, her's !-he dared not throw
Thou tauntedst me as little worth ; One look upon that deathlike brow !
A match ignoble for her arms, Else had his rising heart betray'd
Because, forsooth, I could not claira
The lawful heirship of thy name,
Yet, were a few short summers mine,
My name should more than Este's shine And Azo spake :-- But yesterday
With honors all my own.
I had a sword and have a breast
That should have won as haught: a crest
As ever waved along the line
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. Well,-let that pase,--there breathes not one Not always knightly spurs are worn Who would not do as I have done:
The brightest by the better born; Those ties are broken-not by me;
And mine have lanced my courser's flank
When charging to the cheering cry
Of • Este and of Victory!'
I will not plead the cause of crime,
Nor sue thee to redeem from time
A few brief hours or days that must
At length roll o'er my reckless dust ;-
Such maddening moments as my past,
They could not and they did not, last-
Albeit my birth and name be base,
And thy nobility of race
Yet in my lineaments they trace
Some features of my father's face,
And in my spirit-all of thee. Go! if that sight thou canst outlive,
From thee-this tamelessness of heartAnd joy thee in the life I give."
From thee-nay, wherefore dost thou start 1