THE CORSAIR.

1814.

-'I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno.'

TASSO, Gerusalemme Liberata, Canto x.

MY DEAR MOORE,

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but wildness, tenderness, and originality are part of your national claim of Oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians.

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but, for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award of 'gods, men, nor columns.' In the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but perhaps the best adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I confess, it is the measure most after my own heart. Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius. In blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure, certainly; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present, and will be of my future regret.

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticized, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so. If I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of 'drawing from self,' the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than 'The Giaour,' and perhaps-but no-I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever alias they please.

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself,

January 2, 1814.

Most truly and affectionately,

His obedient servant,

BYRON.

I.

CANTO THE FIRST.

nessun maggior dolore,

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria,

O'ER the glad waters of the dark-blue sea,* Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home!

--DANTE.

And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,

How had the brave who fell exulted now!'

II.

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while;
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks

along,

These are our realms, no limits to their sway-Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle,
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot
please-

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than
zeal,

And where the feebler faint can only feel-
Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?

No dread of death if with us die our foes-
Save that it seems even duller than repose:

And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,
They game-carouse-converse-or whet the
brand

Select the arms-to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the shore;
For the wild bird the busy springes set,
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net;
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil,
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil:
No matter where-their chief's allotment this;
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss.
But who that CHIEF? his name on every shore
Is famed and fear'd-they ask and know no more.

Come when it will-we snatch the life of life-With these he mingles not but to command;
When lost-what recks it but disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied
head;

Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound-escapes con-

trol.

His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,
But they forgive his silence for success.
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill,
That goblet passes him untasted still-
And for his fare-the rudest of his crew
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too;
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest

roots,

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits,
His short repast in humbleness supply
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny.
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,
His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence.
'Steer to that shore !'-they sail. 'Do this!'
-tis done!

prey,Now form and follow me!'--the spoil is won.
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,
And all obey and few inquire his will;
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.

The time in this poem may seem too short for the occur. rences, but the whole of the Agean isles are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.

III.

'A sail!-a sail !'—a promised prize to Hope!
Her nation-flag-how speaks the telescope?
No prize, alas! but yet a welcome sail :
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.
Yes-she is ours-a home-returning bark—
Blow fair, thou breeze!-she anchors ere the
Already doubled is the cape-our bay [dark.
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the

spray.

How gloriously her gallant course she goes!

'Tis he-'tis Conrad-here, as wont-alone;
On-Juan !-on-and make our purpose known.
The bark he views-and tell him we would greet
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet:
We dare not yet approach-thou know'st his
mood,

When strange or uninvited steps intrude.'

VII.

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent:
He spake not, but a sign express'd assent.

Her white wings flying-never from her foes-These Juan calls-they come to their salute
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.

Who would not brave the battle-fire-the wreck-
To move the monarch of her peopled deck?
IV.

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings;
The sails are furl'd; and anchoring, round she
swings:

And gathering loiterers on the land discern
Her boat descending from the latticed stern.
'Tis mann'd-the oars keep concert to the strand,
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.
Hail to the welcome shout!-the friendly speech!
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;
The smile, the question, and the quick reply,
And the heart's promise of festivity!

V.

He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute.
'These letters, Chief, are from the Greek-the

spy,

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report
Much that'-'Peace, peace!'-he cuts their
prating short.

Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to

each

Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech:
They watch his glance with many a stealing look,
To gather how that eye the tidings took;
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside,
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride,
He read the scroll-' My tablets, Juan, hark-
Where is Gonsalvo?'

In the anchor'd bark.' 'There let him stay-to him this order bear.

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the Back to your duty-for my course prepare:

crowd:

The hum of voices, and the laughter loud,
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard-
Friends-husbands'-lovers' names in each dear

word:

'Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success;
But shall we see them? will their accents bless?
From where the battle roars, the billows chafe,
They doubtless boldly did-but who are safe?
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise,
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!'

VI.

Myself this enterprise to-night will share.'
To-night, Lord Conrad?'
'Ay! at set of sun :
The breeze will freshen when the day is done.
My corslet-cloak-one hour and we are gone.
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ;
Sling on thy bugle-sce that free from rust
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand,
And give its guard more room to fit my hand.
This let the armourer with speed dispose ;
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes:
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired,

Where is our chief? for him we bear report-To tell us when the hour of stay's expired.'
And doubt that joy-which hails our coming-
short;

Yet thus sincere 'tis cheering, though so brief;
But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief:
Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return,
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn.'
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way,
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay,
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming,
And freshness breathing from each silver spring,
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins
burst,

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst;
From crag to cliff they mount.-Near yonder

cave,

What lonely straggler looks along the wave?
In pensive posture leaning on the brand,
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?

VIII.

They make obeisance, and retire in haste,
Too soon to seek again the watery waste:
Yet they repine not-so that Conrad guides;
And who dare question aught that he decides?
That man of loneliness and mystery,
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain?
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?
The power of Thought-the magic of the Mind!
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill,
That moulds another's weakness to its will;