« ForrigeFortsett »
I read abhorrence on thy brow,
And this too was I born to bear!
The bird that sings within the brake,
, my weal, my woe,
And she was lost and yet I breathed,
But not the breath of human life :
And stung my every thought to strife.
The deed that's done canst thou undo?. VOL. III.-T
a friend !
Think me not thankless - but this grief
But soothe not- mock not my distress !
When heart with heart delights to blend,
I had Ah! have I now ? -
Memorial of a youthful vow;
Though souls absorbed like mine allow
And I have smiled -I then could smile
- I reck'd not what the while :
And he will start to hear their truth,
And wish his words had not been sooth:
Through many a busy bitter sceno
Of all our golden youth had been,
(1) The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the patient), and
was delivered in the usual tone of all orthod u preach
I do not ask him not to mourn,
Tell me no more of fancy's gleam,
I'was then, I tell thec, father! then
(1) "Symar," a shroud.
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 mock my touch? Ah! were ihy beauties e'er 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 Hknew 'twas false — she could not die ! But he is dead! within therdell Psaw him buried where he sell He comes not, for he cannot break From earth ; why then art thou awake? They told me wild waves roll'd above The face 1 view, the form I love ; They told me - 'twas a hideous tale! I'd tell it, but my tongne would fail : Il true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou coni'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 ayain depart! Or farther with thee bear my soul, Than winds can waft or waters roll !
“ Such is my name, and such my tale.
Confessor! to thy secret ear
And thank thee for the generous tear
nor of his name and race Hath left a token or a trace,
Save what the father must not say
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 twelvo 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 fair ost of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Komaic and Arnaout dity. The story in tho text is ono 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 regrot that my memory has retained so few fragments of the original.
For tho contonts of somo of the notes I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most castorn, and, as Mr. Wobor justly ontitlos it, “ sublimo inlo," iho • Caliph Vathok.” I do not know from what sourco tho author of that singular volume may have drawn his niatorials ; somo of his incidents are to ve found in the “ Bibliotheque Orientalo; 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 believ. ing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas' must bow before it; his " Happy Valloy” will not bear a comparison with the “ Hall of Eblis."
Gesin enfesses the tale