802 
POE 
words to defcribe the art that makes thefe brothers at 
once o' * owij, The defcription of them, fo diftindt ; 
yet fo ; ~fces-us burn with indignation at their 
imprifo ne hunter, the jocund, ftrong, and 
valiant, \ ^ 
Soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the deep mountain’s fide— 
falls firft. We are told how “ his mighty heart de¬ 
clined he loathed his food, though not becaufe ’twas 
coarfe or rude; and we fadly grieve; we hear the “ Pri- 
foner” deplore that he “could not hold his head” nor 
reach his dying hand ; and are terribly affeCted ; but how 
tlie foul gullies at thefe words: 
I begg’d them as a boon to lay 
His corfe in dull whereon the day 
Might Ihine. It was a foolifh thought; 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn head 
In fuch a dungeon could not reft- 
I might have fpared my idle prayer; 
They coldly laughed, and laid him there. 
The death of the fecond brother is as perfectly told. 
Of that fweet mild-fpirited boy, “ the infant love of all 
his race; his martyred father’s deareft thought,” who 
faded, with a bloom on his cheek that pafled as the tints 
of the departing rainbow, without a murmur, nay rather 
ipeaking words of hope. This fair being was filent: 
I liltened, but I could not hear; 
I call’d, for I was wild with fear; 
I knew ’tw»as hopelefs, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonilhed. 
I called, and thought, and heard a found ; 
I burft my chain with one ftrong bound, 
And rulh’d to him. I found him not: 
I only llirr’d in that black fpot; 
I only liv’d : I only drew 
The accurfed breath of dungeon dew. 
Tiie Inft, the foie, the deareft, link 
Eetween me and the eternal brink, 
Which bound me to my failing race, 
Was broken in this fatal place. 
One on the earth, and one beneath ; 
My brothers both had ceafed to breathe. 
I took the hand that lay fo ftill : 
Alas ! my own was full as chill. 
I had not ftrength to ftir or ftrive, 
But felt that I was ftill alive. 
The reader alfo remembers the cafe with which the 
“ Prifoner” avoided ftepping on the grave of his brother ; 
a beautifully tender idea : 
The “Bride of Abydos,” afar more regular poem thap 
the Giaour, is worthy of particular imitation, for the 
rapid and cor.cife manner in which the early part of the 
ftory is written. When, however, lie begins to fpeak, he 
cannot be filent. He indulges in the largeft reflections, 
fuch are quite impoflihle to fucli a character, and are, in 
fail, the thoughts of the author himfelf: ftill they are fo 
fine, that every one mull read them. 
The defcription of Zuleika has two ideas of tranfeen- 
dent beauty, and, as we think, original ; the one is, that 
fhe is 
Dazzling, as that. Oh ! too tranfeendent divifion ! 
To forrows phantom-peopled (lumber given ; 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elyfian, 
And paints the loft on earth revived in heaven. 
The other “ Soft as the memory of buried love.” 
The feelings of Selim, when he learns that Zuleika 
loves him, are told with an intenfity that Byron alone 
could portray. As foon as the youth hears the artlels 
confdfion of the maid, 
TRY. 
He lived—he breathed—he moved—he felt; 
He raifed the maid from where fhe knelt. 
His trance was gone ; his keen eye (hone 
With thoughts that long in darknefs dwelt. 
With thoughts that burn ; in rays that melt 
As the ftream late concealed 
By the fringe of its willows, 
Whemit rufhes revealed 
In the light of its billows; 
As the ball burft on high 
From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flafhed the foul of that eye 
Through the long ladies round it. 
A war-horfe at the trumpet’s found, 
A'lion roufed by heedlefs hound, 
A tyrant wak’d to Bidden ftrife 
By the graze of ill-direCled knife. 
Starts not to more convulfive life 
Than he who heard that vow difplayed, 
And all before repreffed, betrayed. 
Among other beauties we cannot fail to particularife 
the addrefs of Selim to his fair one, beginning “ Ay ! let 
me like the ocean-patriarch roam,” that in which he bids 
her be “ the rainbow to the ftorms of life.” It is the 
very foul of tendernefs and grace ; and it is only to be 
regretted that it is preceded and followed by long dif- 
courfes by the fame perfon, but in a different meafure, 
that have mucii coarfe and unneceffary language. The 
three lines immediately preceding this fine paffage are: 
So let them eafe their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights which man ne’er knew. 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Now are not thefe lines abrupt, their thought common, 
and improperly placed in the mouth of a young Turk, 
who could by no poftibility have arrived at the high 
philofophy of defpifing the doCtrine of equal rights ? 
But it is a fault, no one can deny, that Byron will intro¬ 
duce felf fomehow or other. 
“ Parafina” and “The Siege of Corinth” are mucii 
better finiftied poems than the preceding, and are lefs 
affeCted with the author’s mifanthropical feelings. The 
fubjeCt of Parafina, though perhaps naturally a bad one, 
is treated in a mafterly ftyle. We are hurried with 
breathlefs expectation through the feelings of agitation 
which precede Henry’s approach, through the meeting, 
the woeful parting, the dreadful difeovery in the night, 
the inveftigation in the morning, the fearful court where 
the father is feated to inflict death on his fon. The 
defence of this fon is a model, manly, eloquent, and 
animated in the extreme; it yet betrays all the incon- 
filtency of guilt, and the vacillation of a fine fpirit on 
the verge or exiftence. His execution is no lefs excellent; 
and the attempt of Parafina to fpeak, and burlting into 
a fliriek, is true to nature : but the ballad-mongery ftyle 
of the two lines which end— 
While the crowd in a fpeechlefs circle gather 
To fee the fon fail by the doom of the father— 
are, with the affociations that at prefent attend this ftyle, 
very ludicrous. Another age will not feel this draw¬ 
back. 
The “ Siege of Corinth” is a very fine poem. We can 
fcarcely exprefs which is the fined of its three molt con¬ 
tracted parts. The defcription of the fight» that begin¬ 
ning “ The tent of Alp was on the (hore,” in which Fran- 
cifea appears, and gives us a feeling of aftonifliment as fear¬ 
ful as Alp mult have undergone himfelf; that famous apof- 
trophe to the Greeks— 
They (el! devoted, hut, in dying, 
The very gale their names (eemed fighing. 
But there is one (hort piece which is perhaps more 
truly delcriptive than any of the productions of thofe 
who have fo fuccefsfully toiled to make “ the found an 
5 ecno 
