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Dear as his native song to exile's ears,

Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears.
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower
Blooming as Aden (1) in its earliest hour.

A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand,
Wait-wave-defend-destroy-at thy command!
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side,
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride.
The haram's languid years of listless ease
Are well resign'd for cares for joys like these:
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove,
Unnumber'd perils,-but one only love!
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay,
Though Fortune frown, or falser friends betray.
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill,
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still!
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown;
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own;
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight,
Blend every thought, do all-but disunite!
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide;
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside: (2)
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd
By fatal Nature to man's warring kind:
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!
He makes a solitude, and calls it-peace! (3)
I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength,
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length:
Power sways but by division-her resource
The blest alternative of fraud or force!
Ours be the last; in time deceit may come
When cities cage us in a social home:
There even thy soul might err-how oft the heart
Corruption shakes which peril could not part!
And woman, more than man, when death or woe,
Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low,
Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame-
Away suspicion !—not Zuleika's name!
But life is hazard at the best; and here
No more remains to win, and much to fear:
Yes, fear!-the doubt, the dread of losing thee,
By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree.
That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale,
Which love to-night hath promised to my sail:
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest,
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest.
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms;
Earth-sea alike our world within our arms!
Ay-let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck,
So that those arms cling closer round my neck:
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be (4)
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee!
The war of elements no fears impart
To Love, whose deadliest bane is human art:
There lie the only rocks our course can check;
Here moments menace-there are years of wreck!

Immediately after succeeded another note:-"Did you look out? Is it Medina or Mecca that contains the Holy Sepulchre? Don't make me blaspheme by your negligence. I blush, as a good Mussulman, to have confused the point." After all these various changes, the couplet in question ultimately assumed its present form.-P. E.

(1) Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman paradise.

(2) "You wanted some reflections; and I send you, per Selim, eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not an ethical, tendency. One more revise-positively the last, if decently done-at any rate, the penultimate. Mr. Can

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape!
This hour bestows, or ever bars, escape.
Few words remain of mine my tale to close;
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes;
Yea-foes-to me will Giaffir's hate decline?
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine?

XXI.

"His head and faith from doubt and death
Return'd in time my guard to save;
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave
From isle to isle I roved the while:
And since, though parted from my band
Too seldom now I leave the land,

No deed they've done, nor deed shall do,
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too:

I form the plan, decree the spoil,
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil.
But now too long I've held thine ear;
Time presses, floats my bark, and here
We leave behind but hate and fear.
To-morrow Osman with his train
Arrives-to-night must break thy chain:
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey,
Perchance, his life who gave thee thine,
With me this hour away-away!

But yet, though thou art plighted mine,
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow,
Appall'd by truths imparted now,
Here rest I-not to see thee wed:
But be that peril on my head!"

XXII.

Zuleika, mute and motionless,
Stood like that statue of distress,
When, her last hope for ever gone,
The mother harden'd into stone;
All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niobé.
But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Essay'd to speak, or look reply,
Beneath the garden's wicket porch
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch!
Another and another -and another-
"Oh! fly-no more-yet now my more than
brother!"

Far, wide, through every thicket spread,
The fearful lights are gleaming red;
Nor these alone-for each right hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand.
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau, shining steel;
And last of all, his sabre waving,
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving:
And now almost they touch the cave-
Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave?

ning's approbation, I need not say, makes me proud. To make you some amends for eternally pestering you with alterations, I send you Cobbett,-to confirm your orthodoxy Lord B. to Mr. M.-L. E.

(3) Originally, "He leaves a solitude," etc.-P. E. (4) Originally, "Then if my lip once murmurs, it must be."-P. E.

• Mr. Canning's note was as follows:-"I received the books, and among them, the Bride of Abydos. It is very very beautiful. Lord Byron (when I met him, one day, at a dinner, at Mr. Ward's) was so kind as to promise to give me a copy of it. I mention this, not to save my purchase, but because I should be really flattered by the present,” -L. E.

XXIII.

Dauntless he stood-""Tis come-soon past-
One kiss, Zuleika 't is my last:

But yet my band not far from shore
May hear this signal, see the flash;
Yet now too few-the attempt were rash:
No matter-yet one effort more."
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept;

His pistol's echo rang on high,
Zuleika started not, nor wept,

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye!-
"They hear me not, or if they ply
Their oars, 'tis but to see me die;
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh.
Then forth my father's scimitar,
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war!
Farewell, Zuleika!-Sweet! retire:

Yet stay within-here linger safe,
At thee his rage will only chafe.
Stir not-lest even to thee perchance
Some erring blade or ball should glance.
Fear'st thou for him?-may I expire
If in this strife I seek thy sire!
No-though by him that poison pour'd:
No-though again he call me coward!
But tamely shall I meet their steel?
No-as each crest save his may feel!"
XXIV.

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand:
Already at his feet hath sunk
The foremost of the prying band,

A gasping head, a quivering trunk:
Another falls-but round him close
A swarming circle of his foes;
From right to left his path he cleft,

And almost met the meeting wave:
His boat appears-not five oars' length-
His comrades strain with desperate strength-
Oh! are they yet in time to save?
His feet the foremost breakers lave;
His band are plunging in the bay,
Their sabres glitter through the spray;
Wet-wild-unwearied, to the strand
They struggle-now they touch the land!
They come 't is but to add to slaughter-
His heart's best blood is on the water.

XXV.

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel,
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel,
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset,
To where the strand and billows met;
There as his last step left the land,

And the last death-blow dealt his hand-
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look

For her his eye but sought in vain ?
That pause, that fatal gaze he took,

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain.

Sad proof, in peril and in pain,
How late will lover's hope remain!
His back was to the dashing spray;
Behind, but close, his comrades lay,

(1) "While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron saw the body of a man, who had been executed by being cast into the sea, floating on the stream, moving to and fro with the trembling of the water, which gave to his arms the effect of scaring away several sca-fowl that were

When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball-
"So may the foes of Giaffir fall!"
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang?
Whose bullet through the night-air sang,
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err?
'Tis thine-Abdallah's murderer!
The father slowly rued thy hate,
The son hath found a quicker fate:
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling-
If aught his lips essay'd to groan,
The rushing billows choked the tone!

XXVI.

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;

Few trophies of the fight are there: The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Are silent; but some signs of fray

That strand of strife may bear, And fragments of each shiver'd brand; Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand

May there be mark'd; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat; And, tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep,

There lies a white capote! 'T'is rent in twain-one dark-red stain The wave yet ripples o'er in vain:

But where is he who wore?
Ye! who would o'er his relics weep,
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sigæum's steep

And cast on Lemnos' shore:
The sea-birds shriek above the prey,
O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,

His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,

Then levell'd with the wave-(1) What recks it, though that corse shall lie Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm;

The only heart, the only eye
Had bled or wept to see him die,
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed,

And mourn'd above his turban-stone, (2) That heart hath burst-that eye was closedYea-closed before his own!

XXVII.

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail!
And woman's eye is wet-man's cheek is pale:
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race,

Thy destined lord is come too late:
He sees not-ne'er shall see thy face!

Can he not hear

The loud Wul-wulleh (3) warn his distant ear?
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate,

The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate,

hovering to devour. This incident has been strikingly depicted." Galt.-P. E.

(2) A turban is carved in stone above the graves of mer only.

(3) The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent

The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, Tell him thy tale!

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall!

That fearful moment when he left the cave

Thy heart grew chill:

He was thy hope-thy joy-thy love-thine allAnd that last thought on him thou couldst not save Sufficed to kill;

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! (1)
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 bath 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: (2) "Where is my child?"—an echo answers-" Where?"

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,
Even in that deadly grove-

slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public.

(1) Originally, "living heart.”—P. E.

(2) "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.

(3) "And airy tongues, that syllable men's names."Millon.

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 su perstition 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.

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 vain— To-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 (3) its sound
Into Zuleika's name. (4)

"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.

(4) "The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, is all purity and loveliness. Never was a faultless character more delicately or more justly delineated. Her piety, her intelligence, her strict sense of duty, and her undeviating love of truth, appear to have been originally blended in her mind, rather than inculcated by education. She is always natural, always attractive, always affectionate; and it must be admitted that her affections are not unworthily bestowed. Selim, while an orphan and dependant, is never degraded by calamity; when better hopes are presented to him, his buoyant spirit rises with his expectations: he is enterprising, with no more rashness than becomes his youth; and when disappointed in the success of a well-concerted project, he meets, with intrepidity, the fate to which he is exposed through his own generous forbearance. To us. The Bride of Abydos appears to be, in every respect, superior to The Giaour, though, in point of diction, it has been, perhaps, less warmly admired. We will not argue this point, but will simply observe, that what is read with ease is generally read with rapidity; and that many beauties of style, which escape observation in a simple and connected narrative, would be forced on the reader's attention by abrupt and perplexing transitions. It is only when a tra veller is obliged to stop on his journey, that he is disposed to examine and admire the prospect." George Ellis.-L. E.

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(1) "The Bride, such as it is, is my first entire composi tion of any length (except the Satire, and be d--d to it), for the Giaour is but a string of passages, and Childe Harold is, and I rather think always will be, unconcluded. was published on Thursday, the 2d of December; but how it is liked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not, is no fault of the public, against whom I can have no complaint.

And there by night, reclined, '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! (1)

But I am much more indebted to the tale than 1 can ever be to the most important reader; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination; from selfish regrets to vivid recollections; and recalled me to a country replete with the brightest and darkest, but always most lively, colours of my memory." B. Diary, Dec. 5, 1813.-L. E.

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TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

MY DEAR MOORE,-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

(1) The Corsair was begun on the 18th, and finished on the 31st, of December, 1813; a rapidity of composition which, taking into consideration the extraordinary beauty of the poem, is, perhaps, unparalleled in the literary history of the country. Lord Byron states it to have been written "con amore, and very much from existence." In the origi nal MS. the chief female character was called Francesca, in whose person the author meant to delineate one of his acquaintance; but, while the work was at press, he changed the name to Medora.-L. E.

This is inaccurate. Moore, in a note on the subject, states that the name "had been at first Genevra, not Francesca, as Mr. Dallas asserts."-P. E.

(2) This political allusion having been objected to by a friend, Lord Byron sent a second dedication to Mr. Moore, with a request that he would "take his choice." it ran as follows:

Your

your own country, (2) 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. 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, (3) of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the

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"I have written to you a long letter of dedication, which I suppress, because, though it contained something relating to you, which every one had been glad to hear, yet there was too much about politics, and poesy, and all things whatsoever, ending with that topic on which most men are fluent, and none very amusing,— one's self. It might have been re-written; but to what purpose? My praise could add nothing to your well-earned and firmly-established fame; and with my most hearty admiration of your talents, and delight in your conversation, you are already acquainted. In availing myself of your friendly permission to inscribe this poem to you, I can only wish the offering were as worthy your acceptance, as your regard is dear to

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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 criticised, 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 preseat 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. (1)

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,

Most truly, and affectionately,
His obedient servant,
BYRON.

January 2, 1814.

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(1) "It is difficult to say whether we are to receive this passage as an admission or a denial of the opinion to which it refers; but Lord Byron certainly did the public injustice, if he supposed it imputed to him the criminal actions with which many of his heroes were stained. Men no more expected to meet in Lord Byron the Corsair, who knew himself a villain," than they looked for the hypocrisy of Kehama on the shores of the Derwent Water, or the profligacy of Marmion on the banks of the Tweed." Sir Walter Scott.-L. E. (2) The time in this poem may seem too short for the

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These are our realms, no limits to their sway-
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:
Come when it will-we snatch the life of life-
When lost-what recks it--by 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 control.
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 prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!"

II.

a

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle (3)
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while :
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along,
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.

occurrences, 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.

(3) "There were two islands in the Archipelago when Lord Byron was in Greece, considered as the chief haunts of the pirates-Stampalia, and a long narrow island be tween Cape Colonna and Zea. Jura also was a little tainted in its reputation. I think, however, from the description, that the Pirate's isle of the Corsair is the island off Cape Colouna. It is a rude rocky mass." Gall.-P. E.

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