The Corsair, by Lord Byron

Lord Byron

The Corsair

'O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless, and our soul’s 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 but 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 loath’d 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!'

II.

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 eve 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!’ - ‘tis 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;

So To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye

Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.

III.

‘A sail! - 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?

IV.

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 stem.

'Tis 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!’

VI.

‘Where is our chief? for him we bear report -

And doubt that joy - which hails our coming short;

Yet thus sincere, ’tis 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?

‘Tis he ’tis 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.'

VII.

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.'

VIII.

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!

'Tis 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!

IX.

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.

Sun-bumt 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-'twas 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?

XI.

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent

To lead the guilty-guilt’s worse 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 loath’d 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 pauses 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!

XII.

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 never ranged;

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 sooth’d 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!

XIII.

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.

'Tis 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-flight (but blow, thou breeze!)

To warm these slow avengers of the sea

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 'twas 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, not yet too late.'

XIV.

Thus with himself communion held he, till

He reach’d the summit of his towercrown’d hill:

There at the portal paused-or wild and soft

He heard those accents never heard too oft

Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung,

And these the notes his 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 responsive 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 corridor,

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 action 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 'twas noon-I hail’d and blest the mast

That met my sight-it near’d-Alas! it pass’d!

Another came-Oh God! 'twas 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 ’twas 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 that 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!

Yon 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 tonight 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 dear 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 rake that doubt to more than dread,

Thus Conrad, too, win 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!-'tis 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 signal-gun

It told 'twas 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?

XV.

‘And is he gone?’ on sudden solitude

How oft that fearful question will intrude

‘Twas 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!’

XVI.

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 dang 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.

XVII.

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard,

Before him Juan stands - ‘Are all prepared?’

They are– nay more– embark’d: the boats

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!

CANTO THE SECOND

‘Conoscestci dubiosi desiri?’~Dante

IN Coron’s bay floats many a galley light,

Through Coron’s lattices the lamps are bright

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

A feast for promised triumph yet to come,

When he shall drag the fetter’d Rovers home;

This hath he sworn by Allah 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

'Tis 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.

II.

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, 'tis 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.

III.

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.

IV.

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 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 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, or 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.’

'Twere 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.

'Twas but a moment’s peevish hectic pass’d

Along his cheek, and tranquillised as fast:

He sate him down in silence, and his look

Resumed the calmness which before forsook:

This 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 re-past.

'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 ev’n 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 dose 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 dash’ 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 dispair

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;

‘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,

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

‘Tis 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 ’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.

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!

VI.

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,

Few words to re-assure 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!

VII.

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:

'Twas 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 forget,

The life my loving lord remember’d not!'

VIII.

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!

'Tis 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

IX.

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 gun

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.

‘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,

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 of 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 con ceal’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 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 steel’d by pondering o’er his far career,

He half-way meets him should he menace near!

XI.

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

'Twas 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!

XII.

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, '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 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 pirate-guest

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.

XIII.

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-’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 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.

XIV.

’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 - 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,

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 - '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,

Who never feel the void-the wandering thought

That sighs o’er vision~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 lever 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 ‘twill but bring disgust;

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

’Twere 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! 'tis 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.

Farewell, morn breaks, and I must now away:

‘Twill cost me dear - but dread no death to-day!’

XV.

She press’d his fetter’d fingers to her heart,

And bow’d her head, and turn’d her to de part,

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– deangerously 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!

XVI.

'Tis morn, and o’er his alter’d features play

The beams - without the hope of yester-day.

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,

Chin wet, and misty round each stiffen’d limb,

Refreshing earth - reviving all but him!

CANTO THE THIRD

'Come vedi - ancor non m’abbandona’~Dante

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 Ægina’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;

Tm, 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 ere he sank below Cithæron’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 moon-beams 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 Ægean, 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.

II.

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 for get?

Not he - whose heart nor time nor distance frees,

Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades!

Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain,

His Corsair’s isle was once thine own domain -

Would that with freedom it were thine again!

III.

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. 70

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 fear

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.'

'Tis more than nature’s; like the burning 'night

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 - 'twas 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 snatched 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.

IV.

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 time; 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! 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:

'Tis 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 'tis 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!

VI.

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;

'Twas 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!

VII.

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,

Along known voice - alas! too vainly near!

Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly

Shook o’er his turret cell the thunder-cloud;

And flash’d the lightning by the latticed bar,

To him more genial thanthe 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– eased– he felt alone,

As if some faithless friend had spurn’d his groan!

VIII.

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:

'Tis 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 shouldst 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 poniard - 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 - 'tis 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 ' disdain’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.

'Twas 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;

‘Tis 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!’

'Gulnar~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! ’tis 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

IX.

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.

'Twas 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 - ‘tis she at last!

No poniard 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 - ‘twas but a spot

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood -

Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime - ’tis 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!

XI.

'Tis 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 - 'tis 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.'

XII.

She clapp’d her hands, and through the gallery pour,

Equipp’d for flight, her vassa1s - Greek and Moor;

Silent but quick they stoop, his chains un bind;

Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind!

But on his heavy heart such sadness sate,

As if they there transfer’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.

XIII.

Embark’d, the sail unfurl’d, the light breeze blew -

How much had Conrad’s memory to re-view!

Sunk be 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!

XIV.

Sbe 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.'

XV.

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid

Than her, though undesign’d’ the wretch be 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 canvas 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.

Uprose keen Conrad from his silent trance,

A long, long absent gladness in his glance;

‘Tis mine-my blood-red flag! Again– again –

I am not all deserted on the main!’

They own the signal, answer to the ball,

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail.

‘Tis Conrad! Conrad!’ shouting from the deck,

Command nor duty could their transport check!

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 for bear 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!

XVI.

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!

XVII.

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. 540

‘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!

XVIII.

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 him 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?

XIX.

The lights are high on beacon and from bower,

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora’s tower:

He looks in vain - ‘tis strange - and all remark,

Amid so many, hers alone is dark

’Tis strange of yore its welcome never fall’d,

Nor now, perchance, extinguish’d, only veil’d.

With the first boat descends he for the shore, 573

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 - tis 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;

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 corridor,

Another chequers o’er the shadow’d floor.

His steps the chamber gain - his eyes behold

All that his heart believed not - yet fortold!

XX.

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 it self she was so still and fair,

That death with gender 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 asleep,

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 forbore to smile,

And wish’d repose, - but only for awhile;

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?

XXI.

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 tha’t least befit who wear them most.

XXII.

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

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!

XXIII.

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’ 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!

XXIV.

'Tis 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 sea-boat’s broken chain:

Their hope revives-they follow o’er the main.

'Tis 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.

#EnglishWriters #Romantic

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The Corsair

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