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THE CORSAIR, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea
Last Line: Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes.
Alternate Author Name(s): Byron, Lord; Byron, 6th Baron
Variant Title(s): Corsairs' Song;song Of The Corsairs;song Of The Rover
Subject(s): Sailing & Sailors; Seamen; Sails


--I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno.
TASSO, Gerusalemme Liberata, x. [stanza 7'].


--nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria, --
DANTE. [Inferno, v. 121.]


'O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway --
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave,
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease,
Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please.
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint, can only feel --
Feel -- to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?
No dread of death -- if with us die our foes --
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will -- we snatch the life of life --
When lost -- what recks it by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath and shake his palsied head;
Ours the fresh turf and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang -- one bound -- escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!'


Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while:
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,
They game -- carouse -- converse -- or whet the brand;
Select the arms -- to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the shore;
For the wild-bird the busy springes set,
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net;
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil,
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil:
No matter where -- their chief's allotment this;
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss.
But who that CHIEF? his name on every shore
Is famed and fear'd -- they ask and know no more.
With these he mingles not but to command;
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,
But they forgive his silence for success.
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill.
That goblet passes him untasted still;
And for his fare -- the rudest of his crew
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too;
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots,
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits,
His short repast in humbleness supply
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny.
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,
His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence.
'Steer to that shore!' -- they sail. 'Do this!' -- 't is done:
'Now form and follow me!' -- the spoil is won.
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,
And all obey and few inquire his will;
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.


A sail! -- a sail!' -- a promised prize to Hope!
Her nation -- flag -- how speaks the telescope?
No prize, alas! -- but yet a welcome sail:
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.
Yes -- she is ours -- a home-returning bark --
Blow fair, thou breeze! -- she anchors ere the dark.
Already doubled is the cape -- our bay
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.
How gloriously her gallant course she goes!
Her white wings flying -- never from her foes --
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Who would not brave the battle-fire, the wreck,
To move the monarch of her peopled deck?


Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings;
The sails are furl'd; and anchoring round she swings:
And gathering loiterers on the land discern
Her boat descending from the latticed stern.
'T is mann'd; the oars keep concert to the strand,
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.
Hail to the welcome shout! -- the friendly speech!
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;
The smile, the question, and the quick reply,
And the heart's promise of festivity!


The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd:
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud,
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard --
Friends', husbands', lovers' names in each dear word:
'Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success --
But shall we see them? will their accents bless?
From where the battle roars, the billows chafe,
They doubtless boldly did -- but who are safe?
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise,
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!'

'Where is our chief? for him we bear report --
And doubt that joy, which hails our coming, short;
Yet thus sincere -- 't is cheering, though so brief;
But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief:
Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return,
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn.'
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way,
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay,
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming,
And freshness breathing from each silver spring,
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst,
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst --
From crag to cliff they mount. -- Near yonder cave,
What lonely straggler looks along the wave?
In pensive posture leaning on the brand,
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?
''T is he -- 't is Conrad; here -- as wont -- alone;
On -- Juan! -- on -- and make our purpose known.
The bark he views, and tell him we would greet
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet:
We dare not yet approach -- thou know'st his mood,
When strange or uninvited steps intrude.'


Him Juan sought, and told of their intent; --
He spake not, but a sign express'd assent.
These Juan calls -- they come -- to their salute
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute.
'These letters, Chief, are from the Greek -- the spy,
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report,
Much that' -- 'Peace, peace!' he cuts their prating short.
Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each,
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech:
They watch his glance with many a stealing look,
To gather how that eye the tidings took;
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside,
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride,
He read the scroll. -- 'My tablets, Juan, hark --
Where is Gonsalvo?'
'In the anchor'd bark.'
'There let him stay -- to him this order bear --
Back to your duty -- for my course prepare;
Myself this enterprise to-night will share.'
'To-night, Lord Conrad?'
'Ay! at set of sun:
The breeze will freshen when the day is done.
My corslet -- cloak -- one hour -- and we are gone.
Sling on thy bugle -- see that free from rust
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust;
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand,
And give its guard more room to fit my hand.
This let the Armourer with speed dispose;
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes:
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired,
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired.


They make obeisance and retire in haste,
Too soon to seek again the watery waste:
Yet they repine not -- so that Conrad guides;
And who dare question aught that he decides?
That man of loneliness and mystery, --
Scarce seen to smile and seldom heard to sigh;
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue, --
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain?
What should it be that thus their faith can bind?
The power of Thought -- the magic of the Mind!
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill,
That moulds another's weakness to its will;
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.
Such hath it been -- shall be -- beneath the sun
The many still must labour for the one!
'T is Nature's doom -- but let the wretch who toils
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils.
Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains,
How light the balance of his humbler pains!


Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,
Demons in act but Gods at least in face,
In conrad's form seems little to admire,
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire:
Robust but not Herculean -- to the sight
No giant frame sets forth his common height;
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men;
They gaze and marvel how -- and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.
Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale
The sable curls in wild profusion veil;
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.
Though smooth his voice and calm his general mien,
Still seems there something he would not have seen:
His features' deepening lines and varying hue
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view,
As if within that murkiness of mind
Work'd feelings fearful and yet undefined;
Such might it be -- that none could truly tell --
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell.
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy
The full encounter of his searching eye:
He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,
At once the observer's purpose to espy,
And on himself roll back his scrutiny,
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray
Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day.
There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled -- and Mercy sigh'd farewell!


Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,
Within -- within -- 't was there the spirit wrought!
Love shows all changes -- Hate, Ambition, Guile,
Betray no further than the bitter smile;
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,
He, who would see, must be himself unseen.
Then -- with the hurried tread, the upward eye,
The clenched hand, the pause of agony,
That listens, starting, lest the step too near
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear:
Then -- with each feature working from the heart,
With feelings loosed to strengthen -- not depart,
That rise -- convulse -- contend -- that freeze or glow,
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow;
Then -- Stranger! if thou canst and tremblest not,
Behold his soul, the rest that soothes his lot!
Mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears
The scathing thought of execrated years!
Behold -- but who hath seen, or e'er shall see,
Man as himself, the secret spirit free?


Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent
To lead the guilty -- guilt's worst instrument;
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven.
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school,
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe,
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,
And not the traitors who betray'd him still;
Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men
Had left him joy, and means to give again.
Fear'd, shunn'd, belied, ere youth had lost her force,
He hated man too much to feel remorse,
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call
To pay the injuries of some on all.
He knew himself a villain, but he deem'd
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd;
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.
He knew himself detested, but he knew
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded too.
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
From all affection and from all contempt:
His name could sadden and his acts surprise,
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise.
Man spurns the worm, but panses ere he wake
The slumbering venom of the folded snake:
The first may turn, but not avenge the blow;
The last expires, but leaves no living foe;
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings,
And he may crush -- not conquer -- still it stings!


None are all evil: quickening round his heart,
One softer feeling would not yet depart.
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled
By passions worthy of a fool or child;
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,
And even in him it asks the name of Love!
Yes, it was love -- unchangeable -- unchanged,
Felt but for one from whom he neverranged;
Though fairest captives daily met his eye,
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by;
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower,
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.
Yes -- it was Love; if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet -- Oh more than all! -- untired by time;
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,
Could render sullen were she near to smile,
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent;
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove; --
If there be love in mortals -- this was love!
He was a villain -- ay -- reproaches shower
On him -- but not the passion, nor its power,
Which only proved, all other virtues gone,
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!


He paused a moment, till his hastening men
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen.
'Strange tidings! -- many a peril have I pass'd,
Nor know I why this next appears the last!
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,
Nor shall my followers find me falter here.
'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate;
And, if my plan but hold and Fortune smile,
We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile.
Ay, let them slumber, peaceful be their dreams!
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!)
To warm these slow avengers of the seas.
Now to Medora -- Oh! my sinking heart,
Long may her own be lighter than thou art!
Yet was I brave -- mean boast where all are brave!
Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save.
This common courage which with brutes we share,
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair,
Small merit claims; but 't was my nobler hope
To teach my few with numbers still to cope.
Long have I led them -- not to vainly bleed;
No medium now -- we perish or succeed!
So let it be -- it irks not me to die;
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly.
My lot hath long had little of my care,
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare:
Is this my skill? my craft? to set at last
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast?
Oh, Fate! -- accuse thy folly, not thy fate --
She may redeem thee still -- nor yet too late.'


Thus with himself communion held he, till
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill:
There at the portal paused -- for wild and soft
He heard those accents never heard too oft.
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung,
And these the notes the bird of beauty sung:


'Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsie swells,
Then trembles into silence as before.


'There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp
Burns the slow flame, eternal -- but unseen;
Which not the darkness of despair can damp,
Though vain its ray as it had never been.


'Remember me -- Oh! pass not thou my grave
Without one thought whose relics there recline:
The only pang my bosom dare not brave
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.


'My fondest, faintest, latest accents hear --
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;
Then give me all I ever ask'd -- a tear,
The first -- last -- sole reward of so much love.'

He pass'd the portal, cross'd the corridore,
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er:
'My own Medora! sure thy song is sad --'

'In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad?
Without thine ear to listen to my lay,
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray:
Still must each accent to my bosom suit,
My heart unhush'd -- although my lips were mute!
Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined,
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind,
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale;
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge,
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge.
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire;
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star,
And morning came -- and still thou wert afar.
Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,
And day broke dreary on my troubled view,
And still I gazed and gazed -- and not a prow
Was granted to my tears -- my truth -- my vow!
At length -- 't was noon -- I hail'd and blest the mast
That met my sight -- it near'd -- Alas! it pass'd!
Another came -- Oh God! 't was thine at last!
Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne'er,
My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share?
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home
As bright as this invites us not to roam.
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear,
I only tremble when thou art not here;
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life,
Which flies from love and languishes for strife --
How strange that heart, to me so tender still,
Should war with nature and its better will!'

'Yea, strange indeed -- that heart hath long been changed;
Worm-like 't was trampled, adder-like avenged,
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love,
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above.
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn,
My very love to thee is hate to them,
So closely mingling here, that disentwined
I cease to love thee when I love mankind!
Yet dread not this; the proof of all the past
Assures the future hat my love will last:
But -- Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart,
This hour again -- but not for long -- we part.'

'This hour we part! -- my heart foreboded this:
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.
This hour -- it cannot be -- this hour away!
You bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay;
Her consort still is absent, and her crew
Have need of rest before they toil anew.
My love! thou mock'st my weakness, and wouldst steel
My breast before the time when it must feel;
But trifle now no more with my distress,
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness.
Be silent, Conrad! -- dearest! come and share
The feast these hands delighted to prepare;
Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare!
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best,
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd
At such as seem'd the fairest; thrice the hill
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill;
Yes! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow,
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow!
The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers;
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears!
Think not I mean to chide, for I rejoice
What others deem a penance is thy choice.
But come, the board is spread; our silver lamp
Is trimm'd and heeds not the sirocco's damp.
Then shall my handmaids while the time along,
And join with me the dance, or wake the song;
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear,
Shall soothe or lull -- or, should it vex thine ear,
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told,
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.
Why -- thou wert worse than he who broke his vow
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now;
Or even that traitor chief -- I've seen thee smile,
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle,
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while:
And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said,
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread,
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main:
And he deceived me -- for -- he came again!'

'Again -- again -- and oft again -- my love!
If there be life below, and hope above,
He will return; but now, the moments bring
The time of parting with redoubled wing.
The why, the where -- what boots it now to tell?
Since all must end in that wild word, farewell!
Yet would I fain, did time allow, disclose --
Fear not -- these are no formidable foes;
And here shall watch a more than wonted guard,
For sudden siege and long defence prepared.
Nor be thou lonely; though thy lord's away,
Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay:
And this thy comfort, that, when next we meet,
Security shall make repose more sweet.
List! -- 't is the bugle -- Juan shrilly blew --
One kiss -- one more -- another -- Oh! Adieu!'

She rose, she sprung, she clung to his embrace,
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face.
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye,
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony.
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms,
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms;
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt,
So full -- that feeling seem'd almost unfelt!
Hark -- peals the thunder of the signalgun!
It told 't was sunset -- and he cursed that sun.
Again -- again -- that form he madly press'd,
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd!
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore,
One moment gazed -- as if to gaze no more;
Felt -- that for him earth held but her alone,
Kiss'd her cold forehead -- turn'd -- is Conrad gone?


'And is he gone?' -- on sudden solitude
How oft that fearful question will intrude!
''T was but an instant past -- and here he stood!
And now' -- without the portal's porch she rush'd,
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd;
Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell;
But still her lips refused to send -- 'Farewell!'
For in that word, that fatal word -- howe'er
We promise, hope, believe -- there breathes despair.
O'er every feature of that still, pale face,
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase:
The tender blue of that large loving eye
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy,
Till -- Oh, how far! -- it caught a glimpse of him,
And then it flow'd, and phrensied seem'd to swim
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd.
'He's gone!' -- against her heart that hand is driven,
Convulsed and quick, then gently raised to heaven.
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main;
The white sail set -- she dared not look again;
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate --
'It is no dream -- and I am desolate!'


From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head;
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way
Forced on his eye what he would not survey,
His lone but lovely dwelling on the steep,
That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep:
And she -- the dim and melancholy star,
Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar,
On her he must not gaze, he must not think;
There he might rest -- but on Destruction's brink.
Yet once almost he stopp'd -- and nearly gave
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave:
But no -- it must not be -- a worthy chief
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief.
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind,
And sternly gathers all his might of mind.
Again he hurries on -- and as he hears
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears,
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore,
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar;
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast,
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast,
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge;
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, --
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft.
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast,
He feels of all his former self possest;
He bounds, he flies, until his footsteps reach
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach;
There checks his speed, but pauses, less to breathe
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath,
Than there his wonted statelier step renew;
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view:
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd,
By arts that veil and oft preserve the proud.
His was the lofty port, the distant mien,
That seems to shun the sight, and awes if seen;
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye,
That checks low mirth but lacks not courtesy:
All these he wielded to command assent.
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent,
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard,
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word,
When echo'd to the heart as from his own
His deep yet tender melody of tone:
But such was foreign to his wonted mood,
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued;
The evil passions of his youth had made
Him value less who loved than what obey'd.


Around him mustering ranged his ready guard.
Before him Juan stands -- 'Are all prepared?'
'They are -- nay more, embark'd; the latest boat
Waits but my chief --'
'My sword, and my capote.'
Soon firmly girded on and lightly slung,
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung.
'Call Pedro here!' He comes, and Conrad bends
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends:
'Receive these tablets and peruse with care,
Words of high trust and truth are graven there;
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark:
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine
On our return -- till then all peace be thine!'
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung,
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung.
Flash'd the dipt oars, and, sparkling with the stroke,
Around the waves' phosphoric brightness broke;
They gain the vessel, on the deck he stands;
Shrieks the shrill whistle -- ply the busy hands.
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys,
How gallant all her crew, and deigns to praise.
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn --
Why doth he start and inly seem to mourn?
Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower,
And live a moment o'er the parting hour;
She, his Medora, did she mark the prow?
Ah! never loved he half so much as now!
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day --
Again he mans himself and turns away;
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends,
And there unfolds his plan, his means, and ends.
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart,
And all that speaks and aids the naval art;
They to the midnight watch protract debate;
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late?
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew,
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew;
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle
To gain their port -- long -- long ere morning smile:
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay.
Count they each sail, and mark how there supine
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine.
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by,
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie;
Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape,
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape.
Then rose his band to duty -- not from sleep --
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep;
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood,
And calmly talk'd -- and yet he talk'd of blood!



IN Coron's bay floats many a galley light,
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright,
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast tonight:
A feast for promised triumph yet to come,
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home.
This hath he sworn by Alla and his sword;
And faithful to his firman and his word,
His summon'd 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;
'T is but to sail -- no doubt to-morrow's Sun
Will see the Pirates bound -- their haven won!
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will,
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 turban'd brave,
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave,
Infest his dwelling, but forbear to slay --
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day,
And do not deign to smite because they may!
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow,
To keep in practice for the coming foe.
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 turban'd Seyd;
Around, the bearded chiefs he came to lead.
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff --
Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff,
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use;
The long chibouque's dissolving cloud supply,
While dance the Almas 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.


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.'
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;
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years,
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears.
Vow'd 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 bestow'd on heaven alone.
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd,
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd;
And question of his coming fain would seek,
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak.


'Whence com'st thou, Dervise?'
'From the outlaw's den,
A fugitive --'
'Thy capture where and when?'
'From Scalanova's port to Scio's isle,
The Saick was bound; but Alla 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 flsher's humble boat by night
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight;
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 plunder'd wealth and robber's rock to guard?
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?'

'Pacha! the fetter'd 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;
I only mark'd 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 may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape,
They little deem of aught in peril's shape;
Else vainly had I pray'd 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.
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 shalt not pine where all are banqueting.
The supper done, prepare thee to reply,
Clearly and full -- I love not mystery.'

'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man,
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan;
Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest,
And less respect for every fellow guest.
'T was but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast:
He sate him down in silence, and his look
Resumed the calmness which before forsook.
The feast was usher'd in, but sumptuous fare
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there.
For one so long condemn'd 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,
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;
And my stern vow and order's 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.
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!
Accursed 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 appall'd the sight:
Up rose that Dervise -- not in saintly garb,
But like a warrior bounding on his barb,
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away --
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd 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 --
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!
He saw their terror, check'd the first despair
That urged him but to stand and perish there, --
Since far too early and too well obey'd,
The flame was kindled ere the signal made, --
He saw their terror, from his baldric drew
His bugle -- brief the blast -- but shrilly blew.
'T is answer'd -- '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,
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head:
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, 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;
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate,
And burst within -- and it were death to wait;
Where wild Amazement shrieking -- kneeling -- throws
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
Proclaim'd 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:
''T is well -- but Seyd escapes -- and he must die;
Much hath been done, but more remains to do;
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 fix'd in Conrad's eye,
But sudden sunk; for on his ear the cry
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell
Knock'd 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;
Man is our foe, and such 't is 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.
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!


Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,
Few words to reassure the trembling fair;
For in that pause compassion snatch'd 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.
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 flow'd 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 repell'd:
'One effort -- one -- to break the circling host!'
They form, unite, charge, waver -- all is lost!
Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset,
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet --
Ah! now they fight in firmest file no more,
Hemm'd 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,
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids, freed,
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd,
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd.
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare,
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair,
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy
That smooth'd his accents, soften'd in his eye:
'T was strange -- that robber, thus with gore bedew'd,
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood.
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave;
The Corsair vow'd 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 remember'd not!'


And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread,
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead;
Far from his band, and battling with a host
That deem right dearly won the field he lost,
Fell'd -- bleeding -- baffled of the death he sought,
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought;
Preserved to linger and to live in vain,
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain
And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again --
But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye
Would doom him ever dying -- ne'er to die!
Can this be he triumphant late she saw,
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law?
'T is he indeed, disarm'd but undeprest,
His sole regret the life he still possest;
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill.
Oh were there none, of all the many given,
To send his soul -- he scarcely ask'd to heaven?
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,
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,
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, to-morrow's evening sun
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 famish'd 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,
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone.


'T were 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,
When all its elements convulsed, combined,
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse;
That juggling fiend -- who never spake before --
But cries 'I warn'd thee!' when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
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,
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset;
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'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 remember'd 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 unreveal'd,
Not cankering less because the more conceal'd; --
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre -- the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul -- and break.
Ay -- Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all,
All -- all -- before -- beyond -- the deadliest fall.
Each has 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 steel'd by pondering o'er his far career,
He half-way meets him should he menace near!


In the high chamber of his highest tower
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power.
His palace perish'd in the flame, this fort
Contain'd at once his captive and his court.
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame,
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same.
Alone he sate, in solitude had scann'd
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd'
One thought alone he could not, dared not meet:
'Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?'
Then, only then, his clanking hands he raised,
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed;
But soon he found, or feign'd, or dream'd 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 languor to his mat he crept,
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept.

'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun,
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 stemm'd --
Disguised -- discover'd -- conquering -- ta'en -- condemn'd --
A chief on land -- an outlaw on the deep --
Destroying -- saving -- prison'd -- and asleep!


He slept in calmest seeming, for his breath
Was hush'd so deep -- Ah! happy if in death!
He slept -- Who o'er his placid slumber bends?
His foes are gone, and here he hath no friends;
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace?
No, 't is 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 gemm'd and braided hair;
With shape of fairy lightness, naked foot,
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 pirateguest,
She left his side: his signet-ring she bore,
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before;
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey.
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?
True, 't is to him my life, and more, I owe,
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe.
'T is 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 seem'd 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!'

'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
Snatch'd 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,
That would confess me at so fair a shrine!'

Strange though it seem, yet with extremest grief
Is link'd 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 scaffold 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 flash'd on Conrad, now
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
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.
More now were ruin -- ev'n 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,
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;
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 appear'd, Gulnare,
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair.'

'Thou lov'st another then? -- but what to me
Is this -- 't is nothing -- nothing e'er can be:
But yet -- thou lov'st -- and -- Oh! I envy those
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose,
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 redeem'd 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 favour'd slave at best,
To share his splendour, and seem very blest
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 check'd -- nor quicken'd -- calmly cold:
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight
From one I never loved enough to hate.
No warmth these lips return by his imprest,
And chill'd 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 unmourn'd -- returns unsought --
And oft when present -- absent from my thought.
Or when reflection comes -- and come it must --
I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust;
I am his slave -- but, in despite of pride,
'T were worse than bondage to become his bride.
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, 't is to break thy chain;
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;
To give thee back to all endear'd below,
Who share such love as I can never know.
Earewell -- morn breaks -- and I must now away:
'T will cost me dear -- but dread no death to-day!'


She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart,
And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart,
And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.
And was she here? and is he now alone?
What gem hath dropp'd 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 polish'd by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing, dangerously dear,
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!
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!


'T is Morn -- and o'er his alter'd 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 stiffen'd limb,
Refreshing earth -- reviving all but him!



SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows.
On old AEgina's rock and Idra's isle
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve his palest beam he cast
When, Athens! here thy Wisest look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet -- not yet -- Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonising eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before:
But here he sank below Cithaeron's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd -- the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly,
Who lived and died as none can live or die!

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form.
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And, bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive, scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm;
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye --
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.

Again the AEgean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle
That frown, where gentler ocean seems to smile.


Not now my theme -- why turn my thoughts to thee?
Oh! who can look along thy native sea,
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale,
So much its magic must o'er all prevail?
Who that beheld that sun upon thee set,
Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget?
Not he, whose heart nor time nor distance frees,
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades!
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain,
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain --
Would that with freedom it were thine again!


The sun hath sunk, and, darker than the night,
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height
Medora's heart; the third day 's come and gone --
With it he comes not, sends not -- faithless one!
The wind was fair though light; and storms were none.
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet
His only tidings that they had not met! --
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale
Had Conrad waited for that single sail.

The night-breeze freshens; she that day had pass'd
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast;
Sadly she sate on high -- Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away.
She saw not, felt not this, nor dared depart,
Nor deem'd it cold -- her chill was at her heart;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense,
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense!

It came at last -- a sad and shatter'd boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding -- all most wretched -- these the few --
Scarce knew they how escaped -- this all they knew.
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate.
Something they would have said; but seem'd to feat
To trust their accents to Medora's ear
She saw at once, yet sunk not -- trembled not;
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,
That deem'd not till they found their energy.
While yet was Hope -- they soften'd -- flutter'd -- wept;
All lost -- that softness died not, but it slept;
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,
'With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread.'
'T is more than nature's; like the burning might
Delirium gathers from the fever's height.

'Silent you stand, nor would I hear you tell
What -- speak not, breathe not -- for I know it well --
Yet would I ask -- almost my lip denies
The -- quick your answer -- tell me where he lies.'

'Lady! we know not -- scarce with life we fled;
But here is one denies that he is dead:
He saw him bound; and bleeding -- but alive.'

She heard no further -- 't was in vain to strive,
So throbb'd each vein, each thought, till then withstood;
Her own dark soul these words at once subdued:
She totters -- falls -- and senseless had the wave
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave;
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,
Raise, fan, sustain -- till life returns anew;
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report
The tale too tedious -- when the triumph short.


In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange,
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge;
All, save repose or flight. Still lingering there
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair;
Whate'er his fate -- the breasts he form'd and led
Will save him living or appease him dead.
Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few,
Whose deeds are daring as their hearts are true.


Within the Haram's secret chamber sate
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate;
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell,
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell.
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined
Surveys his brow -- would soothe his gloom of mind:
While many an anxious glance her large dark eye
Sends in its idle search for sympathy,
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,
But inly views his victim as he bleeds.

'Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest
Sits Triumph -- Conrad taken, fall'n the rest!
His doom is fix'd -- he dies: and well his fate
Was earn'd -- yet much too worthless for thy hate:
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard --
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord!
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray --
Watch'd -- follow'd -- he were then an easier prey;
But once cut off -- the remnant of his band
Embark their wealth and seek a safer strand.'

'Gulnare! if for each drop of blood a gem
Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem;
If for each hair of his a massy mine
Of virgin ore should supplicating shine;
If all our Arab tales divulge or dream
Of wealth were here -- that gold should not redeem!
It had not now redeem'd a single hour;
But that I know him fetter'd, in my power;
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still
On pangs that longest rack and latest kill.'

'Nay, Seyd! -- I seek not to restrain thy rage,
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage;
My thoughts were only to secure for thee
His riches -- thus released, he were not free:
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band,
His capture could but wait thy first command.'

'His capture could! -- and shall I then resign
One day to him -- the wretch already mine?
Release my foe! -- at whose remonstrance? -- thine!
Fair suitor! -- to thy virtuous gratitude,
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood,
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare,
No doubt regardless if the prize were fair, --
My thanks and praise alike are due -- now hear!
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear:
I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard.
Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai --
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly?
Thou need'st not answer -- thy confession speaks,
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks;
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware:
'T is not his life alone may claim such care!
Another word and -- nay -- I need no more.
Accursed was the moment when he bore
Thee from the flames, which better far -- but -- no --
I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe;
Now 't is thy lord that warns -- deceitful thing!
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing?
In words alone I am not wont to chafe:
Look to thyself, nor deem thy falsehood safe!'

He rose -- and slowly, sternly thence withdrew,
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu:
Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood,
Which frowns ne'er quell'd nor menaces subdued;
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare,
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare.
His doubts appear'd to wrong -- nor yet she knew
How deep the root from whence compassion grew;
She was a slave -- from such may captives claim
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name.
Still half unconscious, heedless of his wrath,
Again she ventured on the dangerous path,
Again his rage repell'd -- until arose
That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes!


Meanwhile long anxious, weary, still the same
Roll'd day and night: his soul, could terror tame,
This fearful interval of doubt and dread,
When every hour might doom him worse than dead,
When every step that echo'd by the gate
Might entering lead where axe and stake await;
When every voice that grated on his ear
Might be the last that he could ever hear; --
Could Terror tame, that spirit stern and high
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die.
'T was worn, perhaps decay'd, yet silent bore
That conflict, deadlier far than all before.
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale,
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail:
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude,
To pine, the prey of every changing mood;
To gaze on thine own heart, and meditate
Irrevocable faults and coming fate --
Too late the last to shun, the first to mend;
To count the hours that struggle to thine end,
With not a friend to animate, and tell
To other ears that death became thee well;
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie,
And blot life's latest scene with calumny;
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare,
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear,
But deeply feels a single cry would shame,
To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim;
The life thou leav'st below, denied above
By kind monopolists of heavenly love;
And more than doubtful paradise, thy heaven
Of earthly hope, thy loved one from thee riven; --
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain,
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain:
And those sustain'd he -- boots it well or ill?
Since not to sink beneath, is something still!


The first day pass'd; he saw not her, Gulnare;
The second -- third -- and still she came not there;
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done,
Or else he had not seen another sun.
The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might.
Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep,
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep:
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent,
Roused by the roar of his own element!
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave,
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave;
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear,
A long-known voice -- alas! too vainly near!
Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly loud,
Shook o'er his turret cell the thundercloud;
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar,
To him more genial than the midnight star:
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain,
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain.
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd
One pitying flash to mar the form it made:
His steel and impious prayer attract alike --
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike;
Its peal wax'd fainter -- ceased -- he felt alone,
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan!


The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door
A light step came -- it paused -- it moved once more;
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key:
'T is as his heart foreboded -- that fair she!
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint,
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint;
Yet changed since last within that cell she came,
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame.
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye,
Which spoke before her accents -- 'Thou must die!
Yes, thou must die; there is but one resource,
The last -- the worst -- if torture were not worse.'

'Lady! I look to none; my lips proclaim
What last proclaim'd they -- Conrad still the same.
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare,
And change the sentence I deserve to bear?
Well have I earn'd -- nor here alone -- the meed
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed.'

'Why should I seek? because -- Oh! didst thou not
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot?
Why should I seek? -- hath misery made thee blind
To the fond workings of a woman's mind?
And must I say? albeit my heart rebel
With all that woman feels, but should not tell --
Because, despite thy crimes, that heart is moved:
It fear'd thee -- thank'd thee -- pitied -- madden'd -- loved.
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again,
Thou lov'st another -- and I love in vain;
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair,
I rush through peril which she would not dare.
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear,
Were I thine own, thou wert not lonely here:
An outlaw's spouse -- and leave her lord to roam!
What hath such gentle dame to do with home?
But speak not now -- o'er thine and o'er my head
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread;
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free,
Receive this poinard -- rise, and follow me!'

'Ay, in my chains! my steps will gently tread,
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head!
Thou hast forgot -- is this a garb for flight?
Or is that instrument more fit for fight?'

'Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard,
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward.
A single word of mine removes that chain:
Without some aid how here could I remain?
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time,
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime:
The crime -- 't is none to punish those of Seyd.
That hated tyrant, Conrad -- he must bleed!
I see thee shudder, but my soul is changed --
Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled -- and it shall be avenged;
Accused of what till now my heart dis dain'd --
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd.
Yes, smile! -- but he had little cause to sneer,
I was not treacherous then, nor thou too dear:
But he has said it, and the jealous well
(Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel)
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell.
I never loved -- he bought me -- somewhat high,
Since with me came a heart he could not buy.
I was a slave unmurmuring: he hath said,
But for his rescue I with thee had fled.
'T was false thou know'st; but let such augurs rue,
Their words are omens Insult renders true.
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer;
This fleeting grace was only to prepare
New torments for thy life, and my despair.
Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still
Would fain reserve me for his lordly will:
When wearier of these fleeting charms and me,
There yawns the sack -- and yonder rolls the sea!
What, am I then a toy for dotard's play,
To wear but till the gilding frets away?
I saw thee -- loved thee -- owe thee all -- would save,
If but to show how grateful is a slave.
But had he not thus menaced fame and life
(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife),
I still had saved thee -- but the Pacha spared.
Now I am all thine own -- for all prepared:
Thou lov'st me not -- nor know'st -- or but the worst.
Alas! this love, that hatred are the first --
Oh! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not start,
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart;
'T is now the beacon of thy safety -- now
It points within the port a Mainote prow:
But in one chamber, where our path must lead,
There sleeps -- he must not wake -- the oppressor Seyd!'
'Gulnare -- Gulnare -- I never felt till now
My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low!
Seyd is mine enemy, had swept my band
From earth with ruthless but with open hand;
And therefore came I, in my bark of war,
To smite the smiter with the scimitar;
Such is my weapon -- not the secret knife;
Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life.
Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this --
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss.
Now fare thee well -- more peace be with thy breast!
Night wears apace, my last of earthly rest!'

'Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake,
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake.
I heard the order -- saw -- I will not see --
If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee.
My life -- my love -- my hatred -- all below
Are on this cast; Corsair! 't is but a blow!
Without it flight were idle -- how evade
His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid,
My youth disgraced -- the long, long wasted years,
One blow shall cancel with our future fears.
But since the dagger suits thee less than brand,
I'll try the firmness of a female hand.
The guards are gain'd -- one moment all were o'er --
Corsair! we meet in safety or no more;
If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud
Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud.'


She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply,
But his glance follow'd far with eager eye;
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound
His form, to curl their length and curb their sound,
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude,
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued.
'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where
That passage led; nor lamp nor guard was there.
He sees a dusky glimmering -- shall he seek
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak?
Chance guides his steps -- a freshness seems to bear
Full on his brow, as if from morning air;
He reach'd an open gallery -- on his eye
Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky:
Yet scarcely heeded these -- another light
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight.
Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more.
With hasty step a figure outward pass'd,
Then paused -- and turn'd -- and paused -- 't is She at last!
No poinard in that hand, nor sign of ill --
'Thanks to that softening heart, she could not kill!'
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully.
She stopp'd -- threw back her dark far-floating hair,
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair:
As if she late had bent her leaning head
Above some object of her doubt or dread.
They meet -- upon her brow, unknown, forgot,
Her hurrying hand had left -- 't was but a spot --
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood --
Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime -- 't is blood!


He had seen battle, he had brooded lone
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown;
He had been tempted, chasten'd, and the chain
Yet on his arms might ever there remain:
But ne'er from strife, captivity, remorse,
From all his feelings in their inmost force,
So thrill'd, so shudder'd every creeping vein,
As now they froze before that purple stain.
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak,
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek!
Blood he had view'd -- could view unmoved -- but then
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men?


''T is done -- he nearly waked -- but it is done;
Corsair! he perish'd -- thou art dearly won.
All words would now be vain -- away -- away!
Our bark is tossing -- 't is already day.
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine,
And these thy yet surviving band shall join:
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand,
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand!'


She clapp'd her hands, and through the gallery pour,
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals -- Greek and Moor;
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind;
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind!
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate,
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight.
No words are utter'd; at her sign, a door
Reveals the secret passage to the shore;
The city lies behind -- they speed, they reach
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach;
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd,
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd;
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed.


Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew --
How much had Conrad's memory to review!
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the Cape
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape.
Ah! since that fatal night, though brief the time,
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime.
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast,
He veil'd his face and sorrow'd as he pass'd;
He thought of all -- Gonsalvo and his band,
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand;
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride:
He turn'd and saw -- Gulnare, the homicide!


She watch'd his features till she could not bear
Their freezing aspect and averted air;
And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye,
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry.
She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd,
'Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest;
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou?
Reproach me -- but not yet -- Oh! spare me now!
I am not what I seem -- this fearful night
My brain bewilder'd -- do not madden quite!
If I had never loved -- though less my guilt,
Thou hadst not lived to -- hate me -- if thou wilt.'


She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made;
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest,
They bleed within that silent cell -- his breast.
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge,
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge;
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck,
A spot -- a mast -- a sail -- an armed deck!
Their little bark her men of watch descry,
And ampler canvass woos the wind from high;
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier;
A flash is seen -- the ball beyond their bow
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below.
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance,
A long, long absent gladness in his glance;
''T is mine -- my blood-red flag! again -- again --
I am not all deserted on the main!'
They own the signal, answer to the hail,
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail.
''T is Conrad! Conrad!' shouting from the deck,
Command nor duty could their transport cheek!
With light alacrity and gaze of pride,
They view him mount once more his vessel's side;
A smile relaxing in each rugged face,
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace.
He, half forgetting danger and defeat,
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet,
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand,
And feels he yet can conquer and command!


These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow;
They sail'd prepared for vengeance -- had they known
A woman's hand secured that deed her own,
She were their queen; less scrupulous are they
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way.
With many an asking smile and wondering stare,
They whisper round and gaze upon Gulnare;
And her, -- at once above, beneath her sex,
Whom blood appall'd not, -- their regards perplex.
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye,
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by;
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast,
Which -- Conrad safe -- to fate resign'd the rest.
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill,
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,
The worst of crimes had left her woman still!


This Conrad mark'd, and felt -- ah! could he less? --
Hate of that deed but grief for her distress;
What she has done no tears can wash away,
And Heaven must punish on its angry day.
But -- it was done: he knew, whate'er her guilt,
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt;
And he was free! -- and she for him had given
Her all on earth and more than all in heaven!
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave,
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave,
Who now seem'd changed and humbled: -- faint and meek,
But varying oft the colour of her cheek
To deeper shades of paleness, all its red
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead!
He took that hand -- it trembled -- now too late --
So soft in love, so wildly nerved in hate;
He clasp'd that hand -- it trembled -- and his own
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone.
'Gulnare!' -- but she replied not -- 'dear Gulnare!'
She raised her eye, her only answer there;
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace:
If he had driven her from that resting-place,
His had been more or less than mortal heart,
But -- good or ill -- it bade her not depart.
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast,
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest.
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this,
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith --
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath,
To lips whose broken sighs such fragrance fling,
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing!


They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle.
To them the very rocks appear to smile;
The haven hums with many a cheering sound,
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round,
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay,
And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray;
Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak!
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams,
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams.
Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam?


The lights are high on beacon and from bower,
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:
He looks in vain -- 't is strange -- and all remark,
Amid so many, hers alone is dark.
'T is strange -- of yore its welcome never fail'd,
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd.
With the first boat descends he for the shore,
And looks impatient on the lingering oar.
Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,
To bear him like an arrow to that height!
With the first pause the resting rowers gave,
He waits not -- looks not -- leaps into the wave,
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high
Ascends the path familiar to his eye.

He reach'd his turret door; he paused -- no sound
Broke from within, and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly -- footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;
He knock'd -- but faintly -- for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens -- 't is a well-known face --
But not the form he panted to embrace.
Its lips are silent; twice his own essay'd,
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd;
He snatch'd the lamp -- its light will answer all --
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.
He would not wait for that reviving ray --
As soon could he have linger'd there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore,
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor;
His steps the chamber gain, his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not -- yet foretold!


He turn'd not -- spoke not -- sunk not -- fix'd his look,
And set the anxious frame that lately shook:
He gazed -- how long we gaze despite of pain,
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain!
In life itself she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep.
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veil'd -- thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below --
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips;
Yet, yet they seem as they forebore to smile,
And wish'd repose -- but only for a while;
But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long, fair, but spread in utter lifelessness,
Which, late the sport of every summer wind,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;
These and the pale pure cheek became the bier --
But she is nothing -- wherefore is he here?


He ask'd no question -- all were answer'd now
By the first glance on that still, marble brow.
It was enough -- she died -- what reck'd it how?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,
The only living thing he could not hate,
Was reft at once -- and he deserved his fate,
But did not feel it less; -- the good explore,
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar:
The proud, the wayward, who have fix'd below
Their joy and find this earth enough for woe,
Lose in that one their all -- perchance a mite --
But who in patience parts with all delight?
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn;
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost,
In smiles that least befit who wear them most.


By those that deepest feel is ill exprest
The indistinctness of the suffering breast;
Where thousand thoughts begin, to end in one
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none;
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest;
So feeble now -- his mother's softness crept
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept:
It was the very weakness of his brain,
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears -- perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flow'd -- he dried them to depart,
In helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart:
The sun goes forth, but Conrad's day is dim;
And the night cometh, ne'er to pass from him.
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind
On Grief's vain eye -- the blindest of the blind!
Which may not, dare not see, but turns aside
To blackest shade, nor will endure a guide!


His heart was form'd for softness, warp'd to wrong;
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure -- as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot, like that had harden'd too;
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd,
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock;
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock.
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow;
Though dark the shade, it shelter'd, saved till now.
The thunder came; that bolt hath blasted both,
The Granite's firmness and the Lily's growth:
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell;
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!


'T is morn; to venture on his lonely hour
Few dare, though now Anselmo sought his tower.
He was not there, nor seen along the shore;
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er.
Another morn -- another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount, grotto, cavern, valley search'd in vain,
They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain:
Their hope revives, they follow o'er the main.
'T is idle all; moons roll on moons away,
And Conrad comes not, came not since that day:
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair!
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside;
And fair the monument they gave his bride:
For him they raise not the recording stone --
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known;
He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes.

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