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,
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone.
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;
Put 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 remem-
ber'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,
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 !
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
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
'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; [relief,
But soon he found-or feign'd-or dream'd 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'dDisguised, discover'd, - conquering,-ta'en,—
A chief on land, an outlaw on the deepDestroying,-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, '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
[there?
Not cankering less because the more conceal'd-Through guards and dunnest night how came it
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,
-ail-before-beyond-the deadliest fall.
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.
[blows,
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose;
And chill and nodding at the turret door,
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no
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-'tis to him my life, and more, I owe,
And me and mine he spared from worse than
'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 seemed 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.
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,
jallow;
But this-time-hope-nor even thy strength
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
[God!
Were these-my bark, my sword, my love, my
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-
[why-And this will break a heart so more than kind,
And blight a form-till thine appear'd, Guinare
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were so fair.
I come through darkness-and I scarce know
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
But still I thank their courtesy or thine, [right.
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,
[strife.
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she re
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 though
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 :
struke
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once
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.
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. much. During one part of the French Revolution, it became He takes the hand I give not-nor withholda fashion to leave some mot as a legacy; and the quantity of Its pulse nor check'd, nor quicken'd-cal-ny facetious last words spoken during that period would form a cold:
marked that it was too slender to trouble the headsman
melancholy jest-book of a considerable size.
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 '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-mom breaks, and I must now away:
Twill 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
Already polish'd by the hand divine! [mine,
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!
'Tis 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!
'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!
Oer the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On cold Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
Oer his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Tay 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,
Lark his gay course, and own the hues of hea-
TT, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
sehind 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.
The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, e besiness here, and were annexed to an unpublished agh printed) poem, ['The Curse of Minerva']; but they me written on the spot, in the Spring of 1811, and-I scarce ** why—the reader must excuse their appearance here-if
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 agonizing 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 Citharon'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 :
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, but summer of less Juration.
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.
Some bleeding-all most wretched-these the
few-
[knew.
Scarce knew they how escaped-this all they
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 trust their accents to Medora's ear. [to fear
She saw at once, yet sank 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,
All lost-that softness died not-but it slept: And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, dread.
With nothing left to love, there's nought t 'Tis more than nature's-like the burning might
Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts to Delirium gathers from the fever's height.
'Silent you stand-nor would I hear you tell
What-speak not-breathe not-for I know i
Yet would I ask-almost my lip denies [well-
The-quick your answer-tell me where he lies.
Lady! we know not-scarce with life we fled;
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-She heard no further-'twas in vain to strive-
Would that with freedom it were thine again!
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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;
The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.
But here is one denies that he is dead :
He saw him bound; and bleeding-but alive.
So throbb'd each vein-each thought-till the withstood;
(dued Her own dark soul-these words at once subShe totters-falls-and senseless had the wave Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave But that with hands though rude, yet weeping
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies
Dash o'er her death-like cheek the ocean des.
Raise-fan-sustain-till life returns anew;
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave
That fainting form o'er which they gaze 20
grieve;
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report
The tale too tedious-when the triumph short.
In that wild council, words wax'd warm art
strange,
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and reveng`.
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there
Whate'er his fate-the breasts he form'd and La!
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despar
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 face.
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dw-
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cel
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined
Surveys his brow-would soothe his gloom CA
mind;
While many an anxious glance her large dark eye | He rose-and slowly, sternly thence withdrew,
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
Sirs Triumph-Conrad taken-fall'n the rest!
H's 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 re-
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
Oa 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 hiin-the wretch already mine?
Release my foe !-at whose remonstrance?
Fir suitor!-to thy virtuous gratitude, [thine!
Ihat 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.
Forne in his arms through fire from yon Serai-
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly?
Lou need'st not answer--thy confession speaks,
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks;
Iren, lovely dame, bethink thee, and beware!
Its not his life alone may claim such care!
Another word and-nay-I need no more.
cursed was the moment when he bore
bee from the flames, which better far-but no-
then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe-
Now, 'tis thy lord that warns-deceitful thing!
now'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing?
, words alone I am not wont to chafe :
ok to thyself, nor deem thy falsehood safe!'
* The Comboinio, or Mahometan rosary. The beads are in water ninety-nine.
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 sub-
dued;
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 [woes!
That strife of thought, the source of woman's
Meanwhile long, anxious, weary, still the same
Roll'd day and night-his soul could terror
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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!
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
Or else he had not seen another sun. [done,
|