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TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERB TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, RBSPROT FOR BIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDB FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP,
THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED,
BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT,
The Tale which these disjointed fragments present is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the “olden time;" or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.
No breath of air to break the waye
Fair clime! where every season smiles
sweep one blossom from the trees,
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : His queen, the garden queen, his rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given, In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
beside, There passion riots in her pride, And lust and rapine wildly reign To darken o'er the fair domain. It is as though the fiends prevail'd Against the seraphs they assail'd, And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell The freed inheritors of hell ; So soft the scene, so form’d for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy!
He who hath bent him o'er the dead, Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress (Before decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that 's there, The fix’d, yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And—but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was freedom's home or glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Say, is not this Thermopylæ?
Oh servile offspring of the free,-