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—­unaccustomed to disguise or concealment, and being by nature all openness and truth—­gives vent to the feelings which now thrill her maiden heart for the first time, in the rich gush of unspeakable love, tenderness, and devotion—­

    I vish Lord Bateman as you vos mine!]

[Footnote 4: 

    Oh, in sevin long years I’ll make a wow,
    I’ll make a wow, and I’ll keep it strong.