character at this time, and his
expedition, would appear to Have borne a striking resemblance to those of
Lord Byron.

His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite.
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.

CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO I.]

[Footnote 2:

_This Turk he had, &c._

The poet has here, by that bold license which only genius can venture upon,
surmounted the extreme difficulty of introducing any particular Turk, by
assuming a fore-gone conclusion in the reader's mind, and adverting in a
casual, careless way to a Turk unknown, as to an old acquaintance. "_This_
Turk he had--" We have heard of no Turk before, and yet this familiar
introduction satisfies us at once that we know him well. He was a pirate,
no doubt, of a cruel and savage disposition, entertaining a hatred of the
Christian race, and accustomed to garnish his trees and vines with such
stray professors of Christianity as happened to fall into his hands. "This
Turk he had--" is a master-stroke--a truly Shakspearian touch. There are
few things like it in the language.]

[Footnote 3:

_And every holth she drunk unto him
Vos, "I vish Lord Bateman as you vos mine!"_

A most affecting illustration of the sweetest simplicity, the purest
artlessness, and holiest affections of woman's gentle nature. Bred up among
the rough and savage crowds which thronged her father's lawless halls, and
meeting with no responsive or kindred spirit among those fierce barbarians
(many of whom, however, touched by her surpassing charms, though insensible
to her virtues and mental endowments, had vainly sought her hand in
marriage), this young creature had spent the greater part of her life in
the solitude of her own apartments, or in contemplating the charms of
nature arrayed in all the luxury of eastern voluptuousness. At length she
hears from an aged and garrulous attendant, her only female adviser (for
her mother died when she was yet an infant), of the sorrows and sufferings
of the Christian captive. Urged by pity and womanly sympathy, she repairs
to his prison to succour and console him. She supports his feeble and
tottering steps to her father's cellar, recruits his exhausted frame with
copious draughts of sparkling wine, and when his dim eye brightens, and his
pale cheek becomes flushed with the glow of returning health and animation,
she--unaccusto