The Corsair, by Byron

Canto The Second.

“Conosceste i dubbiosi desiri?”

Dante, Inferno, v, 120.


In Coron’s bay floats many a galley light,

Through Coron’s lattices the lamps are bright,1

For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night:

A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 610

When he shall drag the fettered Rovers home;

This hath he sworn by Allah and his sword,

And faithful to his firman and his word,

His summoned prows collect along the coast,

And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast;

Already shared the captives and the prize,

Though far the distant foe they thus despise;

’Tis but to sail—no doubt tomorrow’s Sun

Will see the Pirates bound—their haven won!

Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 620

Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill.

Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek

To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek;

How well such deed becomes the turbaned brave—

To bare the sabre’s edge before a slave!

Infest his dwelling—but forbear to slay,

Their arms are strong, yet merciful today,

And do not deign to smite because they may!

Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow,

To keep in practice for the coming foe. 630

Revel and rout the evening hours beguile,

And they who wish to wear a head must smile;

For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer,

And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear.


High in his hall reclines the turbaned Seyd;

Around—the bearded chiefs he came to lead.

Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff—

Forbidden draughts, ’tis said, he dared to quaff,

Though to the rest the sober berry’s juice2

The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems’ use; 640

The long chibouque’s3 dissolving cloud supply,

While dance the Almas4 to wild minstrelsy.

The rising morn will view the chiefs embark;

But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark:

And revellers may more securely sleep

On silken couch than o’er the rugged deep:

Feast there who can—nor combat till they must,

And less to conquest than to Korans trust;

And yet the numbers crowded in his host

Might warrant more than even the Pacha’s boast. 650


With cautious reverence from the outer gate

Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait,

Bows his bent head—his hand salutes the floor,

Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore:

“A captive Dervise, from the Pirate’s nest

Escaped, is here—himself would tell the rest.”5

He took the sign from Seyd’s assenting eye,

And led the holy man in silence nigh.

His arms were folded on his dark-green vest,

His step was feeble, and his look deprest; 660

Yet worn he seemed of hardship more than years,

And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears.

Vowed to his God—his sable locks he wore,

And these his lofty cap rose proudly o’er:

Around his form his loose long robe was thrown,

And wrapt a breast bestowed on heaven alone;

Submissive, yet with self-possession manned,

He calmly met the curious eyes that scanned;

And question of his coming fain would seek,

Before the Pacha’s will allowed to speak. 670


“Whence com’st thou, Dervise?”

“From the Outlaw’s den

A fugitive—”

“Thy capture where and when?”

“From Scalanova’s port6 to Scio’s isle,

The Saick7 was bound; but Allah did not smile

Upon our course—the Moslem merchant’s gains

The Rovers won; our limbs have worn their chains.

I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast,

Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost;

At length a fisher’s humble boat by night

Afforded hope, and offered chance of flight; 680

I seized the hour, and find my safety here—

With thee—most mighty Pacha! who can fear?”

“How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared,

Their plundered wealth, and robber’s rock, to guard?

Dream they of this our preparation, doomed

To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?”

“Pacha! the fettered captive’s mourning eye,

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy;

I only heard the reckless waters roar,

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; 690

I only marked the glorious Sun and sky,

Too bright—too blue—for my captivity;

And felt that all which Freedom’s bosom cheers

Must break my chain before it dried my tears.

This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape,

They little deem of aught in Peril’s shape;

Else vainly had I prayed or sought the Chance

That leads me here—if eyed with vigilance:

The careless guard that did not see me fly,

May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 700

Pacha! my limbs are faint—and nature craves

Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves:

Permit my absence—peace be with thee! Peace

With all around!—now grant repose—release.”

“Stay, Dervise! I have more to question—stay,

I do command thee—sit—dost hear?—obey!

More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring;

Thou shall not pine where all are banqueting:

The supper done—prepare thee to reply,

Clearly and full—I love not mystery.” 710

’Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man,

Who looked not lovingly on that Divan;

Nor showed high relish for the banquet prest,

And less respect for every fellow guest.

Twas but a moment’s peevish hectic passed

Along his cheek, and tranquillised as fast:

He sate him down in silence, and his look

Resumed the calmness which before forsook:

The feast was ushered in-but sumptuous fare

He shunned as if some poison mingled there. 720

For one so long condemned to toil and fast,

Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast.

“What ails thee, Dervise? eat—dost thou suppose

This feast a Christian’s? or my friends thy foes?

Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge,8

Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre’s edge,

Makes even contending tribes in peace unite,

And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight!”

“Salt seasons dainties—and my food is still

The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill; 730

And my stern vow and Order’s9 laws oppose

To break or mingle bread with friends or foes;

It may seem strange—if there be aught to dread

That peril rests upon my single head;

But for thy sway—nay more—thy Sultan’s throne,

I taste nor bread nor banquet—save alone;

Infringed our Order’s rule, the Prophet’s rage

To Mecca’s dome might bar my pilgrimage.”

“Well—as thou wilt—ascetic as thou art—

One question answer; then in peace depart. 740

How many?—Ha! it cannot sure be day?

What Star—what Sun is bursting on the bay?

It shines a lake of fire!—away—away!

Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar!

The galleys feed the flames—and I afar!

Accurséd Dervise!—these thy tidings—thou

Some villain spy—seize—cleave him—slay him now!”

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light,

Nor less his change of form appalled the sight:

Up rose that Dervise—not in saintly garb, 750

But like a warrior bounding on his barb,

Dashed his high cap, and tore his robe away—

Shone his mailed breast, and flashed his sabre’s ray!

His close but glittering casque, and sable plume,

More glittering eye, and black brow’s sabler gloom,

Glared on the Moslems’ eyes some Afrit Sprite,

Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight.

The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow

Of flames on high, and torches from below;

The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell— 760

For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell—

Flung o’er that spot of earth the air of Hell!

Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves

Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves;

Nought heeded they the Pacha’s angry cry,

They seize that Dervise!—seize on Zatanai!10

He saw their terror—checked the first despair

That urged him but to stand and perish there,

Since far too early and too well obeyed,

The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 770

He saw their terror—from his baldric drew

His bugle—brief the blast—but shrilly blew;

’Tis answered—“Well ye speed, my gallant crew!

Why did I doubt their quickness of career?

And deem design had left me single here?”

Sweeps his long arm—that sabre’s whirling sway

Sheds fast atonement for its first delay;

Completes his fury, what their fear begun,

And makes the many basely quail to one.

The cloven turbans o’er the chamber spread, 780

And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head:

Even Seyd, convulsed, o’erwhelmed, with rage, surprise,

Retreats before him, though he still defies.

No craven he—and yet he dreads the blow,

So much Confusion magnifies his foe!

His blazing galleys still distract his sight,

He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight;11

For now the pirates passed the Haram gate,

And burst within—and it were death to wait;

Where wild Amazement shrieking—kneeling—throws 790

The sword aside—in vain—the blood o’erflows!

The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within

Invited Conrad’s bugle, and the din

Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life,

Proclaimed how well he did the work of strife.

They shout to find him grim and lonely there,

A glutted tiger mangling in his lair!

But short their greeting, shorter his reply—

“’Tis well—but Seyd escapes—and he must die—

Much hath been done—but more remains to do— 800

Their galleys blaze—why not their city too?”


Quick at the word they seized him each a torch,

And fire the dome from minaret to porch.

A stern delight was fixed in Conrad’s eye,

But sudden sunk—for on his ear the cry

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell

Knocked at that heart unmoved by Battle’s yell.

“Oh! burst the Haram—wrong not on your lives

One female form—remember—we have wives.

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay; 810

Man is our foe, and such ’tis ours to slay:

But still we spared—must spare the weaker prey.

Oh! I forgot—but Heaven will not forgive

If at my word the helpless cease to live;

Follow who will—I go—we yet have time

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime.”

He climbs the crackling stair—he bursts the door,

Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor;

His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke,

But still from room to room his way he broke. 820

They search—they find—they save: with lusty arms

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms;

Calm their loud fears; sustain their sinking frames

With all the care defenceless Beauty claims:

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood,

And check the very hands with gore imbrued.

But who is she? whom Conrad’s arms convey,

From reeking pile and combat’s wreck, away—

Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed?

The Haram queen—but still the slave of Seyd! 830

The Corsair


Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,12

Few words to reassure the trembling Fair;

For in that pause Compassion snatched from War,

The foe before retiring, fast and far,

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued,

First slowlier fled—then rallied—then withstood.

This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few,

Compared with his, the Corsair’s roving crew,

And blushes o’er his error, as he eyes

The ruin wrought by Panic and Surprise. 840

Alla il Alla! Vengeance swells the cry—

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die!

And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell.

The tide of triumph ebbs that flowed too well—

When Wrath returns to renovated strife,

And those who fought for conquest strike for life.

Conrad beheld the danger—he beheld

His followers faint by freshening foes repelled:

“One effort—one—to break the circling host!”

They form—unite—charge—waver—all is lost! 850

Within a narrower ring compressed, beset,

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet—

Ah! now they fight in firmest file no more,

Hemmed in-cut off—cleft down and trampled o’er;

But each strikes singly—silently—and home,

And sinks outwearied rather than o’ercome—

His last faint quittance rendering with his breath,

Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of Death!


But first, ere came the rallying host to blows,

And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 860

Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed,

Safe in the dome of one who held their creed,

By Conrad’s mandate safely were bestowed,

And dried those tears for life and fame that flowed:

And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare,

Recalled those thoughts late wandering in despair,

Much did she marvel o’er the courtesy

That smoothed his accents, softened in his eye—

’Twas strange—that robber thus with gore bedewed,

Seemed gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 870

The Pacha wooed as if he deemed the slave

Must seem delighted with the heart he gave;

The Corsair vowed protection, soothed affright,

As if his homage were a Woman’s right.

“The wish is wrong—nay, worse for female—vain:

Yet much I long to view that Chief again;

If but to thank for, what my fear forgot,

The life—my loving Lord remembered not!”


And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread,

But gathered breathing from the happier dead; 880

Far from his band, and battling with a host

That deem right dearly won the field he lost,

Felled—bleeding—baffled of the death he sought,

And snatched to expiate all the ills he wrought;

Preserved to linger and to live in vain,

While Vengeance pondered o’er new plans of pain,

And stanched the blood she saves to shed again—

But drop by drop, for Seyd’s unglutted eye

Would doom him ever dying—ne’er to die!

Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, 890

When his red hand’s wild gesture waved, a law!

’Tis he indeed—disarmed but undeprest,

His sole regret the life he still possest;

His wounds too slight, though taken with that will,

Which would have kissed the hand that then could kill.

Oh were there none, of all the many given,

To send his soul—he scarcely asked to Heaven?13

Must he alone of all retain his breath,

Who more than all had striven and struck for death?

He deeply felt—what mortal hearts must feel, 900

When thus reversed on faithless Fortune’s wheel,

For crimes committed, and the victor’s threat

Of lingering tortures to repay the debt—

He deeply, darkly felt; but evil Pride

That led to perpetrate—now serves to hide.

Still in his stern and self-collected mien

A conqueror’s more than captive’s air is seen,

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound,

But few that saw—so calmly gazed around:

Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 910

Their tremors o’er, rose insolently loud,

The better warriors who beheld him near,

Insulted not the foe who taught them fear;

And the grim guards that to his durance led,

In silence eyed him with a secret dread.


The Leech was sent—but not in mercy—there,

To note how much the life yet left could bear;

He found enough to load with heaviest chain,

And promise feeling for the wrench of Pain;

To-morrow—yea—tomorrow’s evening Sun 920

Will, sinking, see Impalement’s pangs begun,

And rising with the wonted blush of morn

Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne.

Of torments this the longest and the worst,

Which adds all other agony to thirst,

That day by day Death still forbears to slake,

While famished vultures flit around the stake.

“Oh! water—water!”—smiling Hate denies

The victim’s prayer, for if he drinks he dies.

This was his doom;—the Leech, the guard, were gone, 930

And left proud Conrad fettered and alone.


’Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew—

It even were doubtful if their victim knew.

There is a war, a chaos of the mind,14

When all its elements convulsed, combined

Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force,

And gnashing with impenitent Remorse—

That juggling fiend, who never spake before,

But cries “I warned thee!” when the deed is o’er.

Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent, 940

May writhe—rebel—the weak alone repent!

Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,

And, to itself, all—all that self reveals,—

No single passion, and no ruling thought

That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, unsought,

But the wild prospect when the Soul reviews,

All rushing through their thousand avenues—

Ambition’s dreams expiring, Love’s regret,

Endangered Glory, Life itself beset;

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 950

‘Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;

The hopeless past, the hasting future driven

Too quickly on to guess if Hell or Heaven;

Deeds—thoughts—and words, perhaps remembered not

So keenly till that hour, but ne’er forgot;

Things light or lovely in their acted time,

But now to stern Reflection each a crime;

The withering sense of Evil unrevealed,

Not cankering less because the more concealed;

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 960

That opening sepulchre, the naked heart15

Bares with its buried woes—till Pride awake,

To snatch the mirror from the soul, and break.

Aye, Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all—

All—all—before—beyond—the deadliest fall.

Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays,

The only hypocrite deserving praise:

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies;

But he who looks on Death—and silent dies:

So, steeled by pondering o’er his far career, 970

He half-way meets Him should He menace near!


In the high chamber of his highest tower

Sate Conrad, fettered in the Pacha’s power.

His palace perished in the flame—this fort

Contained at once his captive and his court.

Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame,

His foe, if vanquished, had but shared the same:—

Alone he sate—in solitude had scanned

His guilty bosom, but that breast he manned:

One thought alone he could not—dared not meet— 980

“Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?”

Then—only then—his clanking hands he raised,

And strained with rage the chain on which he gazed;

But soon he found, or feigned, or dreamed relief,

And smiled in self-derision of his grief,

“And now come Torture when it will, or may—

More need of rest to nerve me for the day!”

This said, with langour to his mat he crept,

And, whatso’er his visions, quickly slept.

’Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 990

For Conrad’s plans matured, at once were done,

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time,

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime.

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemmed—


A Chief on land—an outlaw on the deep—

Destroying—saving—prisoned—and asleep!


He slept in calmest seeming, for his breath16

Was hushed so deep—Ah! happy if in death!

He slept—Who o’er his placid slumber bends? 1000

His foes are gone—and here he hath no friends;

Is it some Seraph sent to grant him grace?

No,’tis an earthly form with heavenly face!

Its white arm raised a lamp—yet gently hid,

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid

Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain,

And once unclosed—but once may close again.

That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair,

And auburn waves of gemmed and braided hair;

With shape of fairy lightness—naked foot, 1010

That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute—

Through guards and dunnest night how came it there?

Ah! rather ask what will not Woman dare?

Whom Youth and Pity lead like thee, Gulnare!

She could not sleep—and while the Pacha’s rest

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest,

She left his side—his signet-ring she bore,

Which oft in sport adorned her hand before—

And with it, scarcely questioned, won her way

Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 1020

Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows,

Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose;

And chill and nodding at the turret door,

They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more;

Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring,

Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring.



She gazed in wonder, “Can he calmly sleep,

While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?

And mine in restlessness are wandering here—

What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 1030

True—’tis to him my life, and more, I owe,

And me and mine he spared from worse than woe:

’Tis late to think—but soft—his slumber breaks—

How heavily he sighs!—he starts—awakes!”

He raised his head, and dazzled with the light,

His eye seemed dubious if it saw aright:

He moved his hand—the grating of his chain

Too harshly told him that he lived again.

“What is that form? if not a shape of air,

Methinks, my jailor’s face shows wondrous fair!” 1040

“Pirate! thou know’st me not, but I am one,

Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done;

Look on me—and remember her, thy hand

Snatched from the flames, and thy more fearful band.

I come through darkness—and I scarce know why—

Yet not to hurt—I would not see thee die.”

“If so, kind lady! thine the only eye

That would not here in that gay hope delight:

Theirs is the chance—and let them use their right.

But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 1050

That would confess me at so fair a shrine!”

Strange though it seem—yet with extremest grief

Is linked a mirth—it doth not bring relief—

That playfulness of Sorrow ne’er beguiles,

And smiles in bitterness—but still it smiles;

And sometimes with the wisest and the best,

Till even the scaffold17 echoes with their jest!

Yet not the joy to which it seems akin—

It may deceive all hearts, save that within.

Whate’er it was that flashed on Conrad, now 1060

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow:

And these his accents had a sound of mirth,

As if the last he could enjoy on earth;

Yet ‘gainst his nature—for through that short life,

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife.


“Corsair! thy doom is named—but I have power

To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.

Thee would I spare—nay more—would save thee now,

But this—Time—Hope—nor even thy strength allow;

But all I can,—I will—at least delay 1070

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

More now were ruin—even thyself were loth

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both.”

“Yes!—loth indeed:—my soul is nerved to all,

Or fall’n too low to fear a further fall:

Tempt not thyself with peril—me with hope

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope:

Unfit to vanquish—shall I meanly fly,

The one of all my band that would not die?

Yet there is one—to whom my Memory clings, 1080

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs.

My sole resources in the path I trod

Were these—my bark—my sword—my love—my God!

The last I left in youth!—He leaves me now—

And Man but works his will to lay me low.

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer

Wrung from the coward crouching of Despair;

It is enough—I breathe—and I can bear.

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand

That might have better kept so true a brand; 1090

My bark is sunk or captive—but my Love—

For her in sooth my voice would mount above:

Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind—

And this will break a heart so more than kind,

And blight a form—till thine appeared, Gulnare!

Mine eye ne’er asked if others were as fair.”

“Thou lov’st another then?—but what to me

Is this—’tis nothing—nothing e’er can be:

But yet—thou lov’st—and—Oh! I envy those

Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 1100

Who never feel the void—the wandering thought

That sighs o’er visions—such as mine hath wrought.”

“Lady—methought thy love was his, for whom

This arm redeemed thee from a fiery tomb.”

“My love stern Seyd’s! Oh—No—No—not my love—

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove

To meet his passion—but it would not be.

I felt—I feel—Love dwells with—with the free.

I am a slave, a favoured slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest! 1110

Oft must my soul the question undergo,

Of—‘Dost thou love?’ and burn to answer, ‘No!’

Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,

And struggle not to feel averse in vain;

But harder still the heart’s recoil to bear,

And hide from one—perhaps another there.

He takes the hand I give not—nor withhold—

Its pulse nor checked—nor quickened—calmly cold:

And when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight

From one I never loved enough to hate. 1120

No warmth these lips return by his imprest,

And chilled Remembrance shudders o’er the rest.

Yes—had I ever proved that Passion’s zeal,

The change to hatred were at least to feel:

But still—he goes unmourned—returns unsought—

And oft when present—absent from my thought.

Or when Reflection comes—and come it must—

I fear that henceforth ’twill but bring disgust;

I am his slave—but, in despite of pride,

’Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 1130

Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!

Or seek another and give mine release,

But yesterday—I could have said, to peace!

Yes, if unwonted fondness now I feign,

Remember—Captive! ’tis to break thy chain;

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;

To give thee back to all endeared below,

Who share such love as I can never know.

Farewell—Morn breaks—and I must now away:

’Twill cost me dear—but dread no death today!” 1140


She pressed his fettered fingers to her heart,

And bowed her head, and turned her to depart,

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.

And was she here? and is he now alone?

What gem hath dropped and sparkles o’er his chain?

The tear most sacred, shed for others’ pain,

That starts at once—bright—pure—from Pity’s mine,

Already polished by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing—dangerously dear—

In Woman’s eye the unanswerable tear! 1150

That weapon of her weakness she can wield,

To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield:

Avoid it—Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?

The timid tear in Cleopatra’s eye.

Yet be the soft Triumvir’s fault forgiven;

By this—how many lose not earth—but Heaven!

Consign their souls to Man’s eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some Wanton’s woe! 1160


’Tis Morn—and o’er his altered features play

The beams—without the Hope of yesterday.

What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing

O’er which the raven flaps her funeral wing,

By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt;

While sets that Sun, and dews of Evening melt,

Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffened limb,

Refreshing earth—reviving all but him!

1 [Coron, or Corone, the ancient Colonides, is situated a little to the north of a promontory, Point Lividia, on the western shore of the Gulf of Kalamata, or Coron, or Messenia.

Antoine Louis Castellan (1772–1838), with whose larger work on Turkey Byron professed himself familiar (Letter to Moore, August 28, 1813), gives a vivid description of Coron and the bey’s palace in his Lettres sur la Morée, etc. (first published, Paris, 1808), 3 vols., 1820. Whether Byron had or had not consulted the “Letters,” the following passages may help to illustrate the scene:—

“La châine caverneuse du Taygete s’élève en face de Coron, à l’autre extrémité du golfe” (iii. 181).

“Nous avons aussi été faire une visite au bey, qui nous a permis de parcourir la citadelle” (p. 187).

“Le bey fait a exécuter en notre présence une danse singuliére, qu’on peut nommer danse pantomime” (p. 189; see line 642).

“La maison est assez bien distribuée et proprement meublée à la manière des Turcs. La principale pièce est grande, ornée d’une boisserie ciselée sur les dessins arabesques, et même marquetée. Les fenêtres donnent sur le jardin . . . les volets sont ordinairement fermés, dans le milieu de la journée, et le jour ne pénètre alors qu’a travers des ouvertures pratiquées, au dessus des fenêtres et garnis de vitraux colorés” (p. 200).

Castellan saw the palace and bay illuminated (p. 203).]

2 Coffee.

3 “Chibouque” [chibûk], pipe.

4 Dancing girls. [Compare The Waltz, line 127, Poetical Works, 1898, i. 492, note 1.]

5 It has been observed, that Conrad’s entering disguised as a spy is out of nature. Perhaps so. I find something not unlike it in history.—“Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be rejected as an improbable fiction; but it is a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero.”—See Gibbon’s Decline and Fall [1854, iv. 272.]

6 [On the coast of Asia Minor, twenty-one miles south of Smyrna.]

7 [A Levantine bark—“a kind of ketch without top-gallant sail, or mizzen-top sail.”]

8 [Compare the Giaour, line 343, note 2; vide ante, p. 102.]

9 The Dervises [Dervish, Persian darvesh, poor] are in colleges, and of different orders, as the monks.

10 “Zatanai,” Satan. [Probably a phonetic rendering of σατανὰ(ς) [satana(s)]. The Turkish form would be sheytan. Compare letter to Moore, April 9, 1814, Letters, 1899, iii. 66, note 1.]

11 A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman anger. See Prince Eugene’s Mémoires, 1811, p. 6, “The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the field.” [“Le séraskier est blessé a la cuisse; il s’arrache la barbe, parce qu’il est obligé de fuir.” A contemporary translation (Sherwood, Neely, and Jones, 1811), renders “il s’arrache la barbe” he tore out the arrow.]

12 Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the flower of the pomegranate.

13 [The word “to” had been left out by the printer, and in a late revise Byron supplies the omission, and writes—

“To Mr. Murray or Mr. Davison.

“Do not omit words—it is quite enough to alter or mis-spell them.


In the MS. the line ran—

“To send his soul—he scarcely cared to Heaven.”

“Asked” is written over in pencil, but “cared” has not been erased.]

14 [Compare—“One anarchy, one chaos of the mind.” The Wanderer, by Richard Savage, Canto V. (1761, p. 86).]

15 [Compare—“That hideous sight, a naked human heart.” Night Thoughts, by Edward Young (Night III.) (Anderson’s British Poets, x. 71).]

16 [Compare—

“When half the world lay wrapt in sleepless night,

A jarring sound the startled hero wakes.

. . . . .

He hears a step draw near—in beauty’s pride

A female comes—wide floats her glistening gown—

Her hand sustains a lamp. . . . ”

Wieland’s Oberon, translated by W. Sotheby, Canto XII. stanza xxxi., et seq.]

17 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she remarked, that it “was too slender to trouble the headsman much.” During one part of the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave some “mot” as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:51