THE GIAOUR,

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE.

No breath of air to break the waveThat rolls below the Athenian’s grave,That tomb 1 which, gleaming o’er the clifl’,First greets the homeward-veering skiff,High o’er the land be saved in vain:

When shall such hore live again?

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Fair clime! where every season smilesBenignant o’er those blessed isles,

Which seen from far Colonna’s height.Make glad the heart that hails the sight,And lend to loneliness delight.

There mildly dimpling, Ocean’s checkReflects the tints of many a peak