Lord Byron

Lord Byron, 1788-1824

Lord Byron, c. 1810  Byron was the ideal of the Romantic poet, gaining notoriety for his scandalous private life and being described by one contemporary as 'mad, bad and dangerous to know'.

George Gordon Noel, sixth Baron Byron, was born on 22 January 1788 in London. His father died when he was three, with the result that he inherited his title from his great uncle in 1798.

Byron spent his early years in Aberdeen, and was educated at Harrow School and Cambridge University. In 1809, he left for a two-year tour of a number of Mediterranean countries. He returned to England in 1811, and in 1812 the first two cantos of 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' were published. Byron became famous overnight.

In 1814, Byron's half-sister Augusta gave birth to a daughter, almost certainly Byron's. The following year Byron married Annabella Milbanke, with whom he had a daughter, his only legitimate child. The couple separated in 1816.

Facing mounting pressure as a result of his failed marriage, scandalous affairs and huge debts, Byron left England in April 1816 and never returned. He spent the summer of 1816 at Lake Geneva with Percy Bysshe Shelley, his wife Mary and Mary's half sister Claire Clairmont, with whom Byron had a daughter.

Byron travelled on to Italy, where he was to live for more than six years. In 1819, while staying in Venice, he began an affair with Teresa Guiccioli, the wife of an Italian nobleman. It was in this period that Byron wrote some of his most famous works, including 'Don Juan' (1819-1824).

In July 1823, Byron left Italy to join the Greek insurgents who were fighting a war of independence against the Ottoman Empire. On 19 April 1824 he died from fever at Missolonghi, in modern day Greece. His death was mourned throughout Britain. His body was brought back to England and buried at his ancestral home in Nottinghamshire.

Lord Byron is often described as the most flamboyant and notorious of the major Romantics due to his indulgent life and numerous love affairs. Many of his poems are autobiographic in nature and much of his work is pervaded by the Byronic hero, an idealised but flawed character capable of great passion and talent but rebellious, arrogant and self-destructive. Lord Byron is regarded as one of the greatest English poets ever and he continues to be influential and widely read.

Selected Poems by George Gordon, LORD BYRON

1. She Walks in Beauty

2. An excerpt from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" [Canto Four, Stanzas 178-186]

3. Darkness

4. Don Juan: Canto 11

5. The Corsair

1. She Walks in Beauty

   BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

   She walks in beauty, like the night
   

   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
   

   And all that’s best of dark and bright
   

   Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
   

   Thus mellowed to that tender light
   

   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
   

   One shade the more, one ray the less,
   

   Had half impaired the nameless grace
   

   Which waves in every raven tress,
   

   Or softly lightens o’er her face;
   

   Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
   

   How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
   

   And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
   

   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
   

   The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   

   But tell of days in goodness spent,
   

   A mind at peace with all below,
   

   A heart whose love is innocent!

2. George Gordon, Lord Byron, an excerpt from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" [Canto Four, Stanzas 178-186]

CLXXVIII.

   There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
   There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
   There is society where none intrudes,
   By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
   I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
   From these our interviews, in which I steal
   From all I may be, or have been before,
   To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

CLXXIX.

   Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll!
   Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
   Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
   Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain
   The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
   A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
   When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
   He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

CLXXX.

   His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields
   Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise
   And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
   For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
   Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
   And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray
   And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
   His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: — there let him lay.

CLXXXI.

   The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
   Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
   And monarchs tremble in their capitals.
   The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
   Their clay creator the vain title take
   Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
   These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
   They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

CLXXXII.

   Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee —
   Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
   Thy waters washed them power while they were free
   And many a tyrant since: their shores obey
   The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
   Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou,
   Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play —
   Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

CLXXXIII.

   Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form
   Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
   Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm,
   Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
   Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime —
   The image of Eternity — the throne
   Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
   The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

CLXXXIV.

   And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
   Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
   Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
   I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me
   Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
   Made them a terror — ’twas a pleasing fear,
   For I was as it were a child of thee,
   And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.

CLXXXV.

   My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme
   Has died into an echo; it is fit
   The spell should break of this protracted dream.
   The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
   My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ —
   Would it were worthier! but I am not now
   That which I have been — and my visions flit
   Less palpably before me — and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

CLXXXVI.

   Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been —
   A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell!
   Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene
   Which is his last, if in your memories dwell
   A thought which once was his, if on ye swell
   A single recollection, not in vain
   He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop shell;
   Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain,
If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain.

3. Darkness

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face;

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;

Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.

The brows of men by the despairing light

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;

And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The pall of a past world; and then again

With curses cast them down upon the dust,

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes

Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd

And twin'd themselves among the multitude,

Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.

And War, which for a moment was no more,

Did glut himself again: a meal was bought

With blood, and each sate sullenly apart

Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;

All earth was but one thought—and that was death

Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;

The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,

Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,

Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead

Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,

But with a piteous and perpetual moan,

And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand

Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.

The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two

Of an enormous city did survive,

And they were enemies: they met beside

The dying embers of an altar-place

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things

For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,

And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, and made a flame

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld

Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—

Even of their mutual hideousness they died,

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,

The populous and the powerful was a lump,

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—

A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.

The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd

They slept on the abyss without a surge—

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,

The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,

And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need

Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

4. Don Juan: Canto 11

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

I

When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter,"

And proved it—'twas no matter what he said:

They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,

Too subtle for the airiest human head;

And yet who can believe it! I would shatter

Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,

Or adamant, to find the World a spirit,

And wear my head, denying that I wear it.

II

What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the

Universe universal egotism,

That all's ideal—all ourselves: I'll stake the

World (be it what you will) that that's no schism.

Oh Doubt!—if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee,

But which I doubt extremely—thou sole prism

Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!

Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.

III

For ever and anon comes Indigestion

(Not the most "dainty Ariel") and perplexes

Our soarings with another sort of question:

And that which after all my spirit vexes,

Is, that I find no spot where Man can rest eye on,

Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,

Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder,

The World, which at the worst's a glorious blunder—

IV

If it be chance—or, if it be according

To the Old Text, still better: lest it should

Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the wording,

As several people think such hazards rude.

They're right; our days are too brief for affording

Space to dispute what no one ever could

Decide, and everybody one day will

Know very clearly—or at least lie still.

V

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical

Discussion, which is neither here nor there:

If I agree that what is, is; then this I call

Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair.

The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical:

I don't know what the reason is—the air

Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.

VI

The first attack at once prov'd the Divinity

(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil);

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;

The third, the usual Origin of Evil;

The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity

On so uncontrovertible a level,

That I devoutly wish'd the three were four—

On purpose to believe so much the more.

VII

To our theme.—The man who has stood on the Acropolis,

And look'd down over Attica; or he

Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is,

Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea

In small-ey'd China's crockery-ware metropolis,

Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh,

May not think much of London's first appearance—

But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence!

VIII

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill;

Sunset the time, the place the same declivity

Which looks along that vale of good and ill

Where London streets ferment in full activity,

While everything around was calm and still,

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he

Heard, and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum

Of cities, that boil over with their scum—

IX

I say, Don Juan, wrapp'd in contemplation,

Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit,

And lost in wonder of so great a nation,

Gave way to't, since he could not overcome it.

"And here," he cried, "is Freedom's chosen station;

Here peals the People's voice nor can entomb it

Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection

Awaits it, each new meeting or election.

X

"Here are chaste wives, pure lives; her people pay

But what they please; and if that things be dear,

'Tis only that they love to throw away

Their cash, to show how much they have a-year.

Here laws are all inviolate; none lay

Traps for the traveller; every highway's clear;

Here"—he was interrupted by a knife,

With—"Damn your eyes! your money or your life!"

XI

These free-born sounds proceeded from four pads

In ambush laid, who had perceiv'd him loiter

Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,

Had seiz'd the lucky hour to reconnoitre,

In which the heedless gentleman who gads

Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter

May find himself within that isle of riches

Expos'd to lose his life as well as breeches.

XII

Juan, who did not understand a word

Of English, save their shibboleth, "God damn!"

And even that he had so rarely heard,

He sometimes thought 'twas only their Salam,"

Or "God be with you!"—and 'tis not absurd

To think so, for half English as I am

(To my misfortune) never can I say

I heard them wish "God with you," save that way—

XIII

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,

And being somewhat choleric and sudden,

Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture,

And fired it into one assailant's pudding,

Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture,

And roar'd out, as he writh'd his native mud in,

Unto his nearest follower or henchman,

"Oh Jack! I'm floor'd by that ere bloody Frenchman!"

XIV

On which Jack and his train set off at speed,

And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance,

Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,

And offering, as usual, late assistance.

Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed

As if his veins would pour out his existence,

Stood calling out for bandages and lint,

And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint.

XV

"Perhaps,"thought he,"it is the country's wont

To welcome foreigners in this way: now

I recollect some innkeepers who don't

Differ, except in robbing with a bow,

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.

But what is to be done? I can't allow

The fellow to lie groaning on the road:

So take him up, I'll help you with the load."

XVI

But ere they could perform this pious duty,

The dying man cried, "Hold! I've got my gruel!

Oh! for a glass of max ! We've miss'd our booty—

Let me die where I am!" And as the fuel

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty

The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill

His breath, he from his swelling throat untied

A kerchief, crying "Give Sal that!"—and died.

XVII

The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down

Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell

Exactly why it was before him thrown,

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.

Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,

A thorough varmint, and a real swell,

Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled,

His pockets first and then his body riddled.

XVIII

Don Juan, having done the best he could

In all the circumstances of the case,

As soon as "Crowner's 'quest" allow'd, pursu'd

His travels to the capital apace;

Esteeming it a little hard he should

In twelve hours' time, and very little space,

Have been oblig'd to slay a free-born native

In self-defence: this made him meditative.

XIX

He from the world had cut off a great man,

Who in his time had made heroic bustle.

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,

Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle?

Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bowstreet's ban)

On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing),

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?

XX

But Tom's no more—and so no more of Tom.

Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 'tis

Not long before the most of them go home.

Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is

That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss,

Through Kennington and all the other "tons,"

Which make us wish ourselves in town at once;

XXI

Through Groves, so called as being void of trees,

(Like lucus from no light); through prospects nam'd

Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please,

Nor much to climb; through little boxes fram'd

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,

With "To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd;

Through "Rows" most modestly call'd "Paradise,"

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;

XXII

Through coaches, drays, chok'd turnpikes, and a whirl

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion;

Here taverns wooing to a pint of "purl,"

There mails fast flying off like a delusion;

There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl

In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass

(For in those days we had not got to gas);

XXIII

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach

Of travellers to mighty Babylon:

Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one.

I could say more, but do not choose to encroach

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun

Had set some time, and night was on the ridge

Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge.

XXIV

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis—

Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream—

Though hardly heard through multifarious "damme's":

The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam,

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is

A spectral resident—whose pallid beam

In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile—

Make this a sacred part of Albion's Isle.

XXV

The Druid's groves are gone—so much the better:

Stonehenge is not—but what the devil is it?—

But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter,

That madmen may not bite you on a visit;

The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor;

The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it)

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection;

But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection.

XXVI

The line of lights too, up to Charing Cross,

Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation

Like gold as in comparison to dross,

Match'd with the Continent's illumination,

Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss.

The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation,

And when they grew so—on their new-found lantern,

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.

XXVII

A row of Gentlemen along the streets

Suspended may illuminate mankind,

As also bonfires made of country seats;

But the old way is best for the purblind:

The other looks like phosphorus on sheets,

A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind,

Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten,

Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.

XXVIII

But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes

Could recommence to hunt his honest man

And found him not amidst the various progenies

Of this enormous city's spreading spawn,

'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his

Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can,

I've done to find the same throughout life's journey,

But see the World is only one attorney.

XXIX

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall,

Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner

As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell

Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner

Admitted a small party as night fell,

Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner,

Pursu'd his path, and drove past some hotels,

St. James's Palace, and St. James's "Hells."

XXX

They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around

The mob stood, and as usual several score

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound

In decent London when the daylight's o'er;

Commodious but immoral, they are found

Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage:

But Juan now is stepping from his carriage

XXXI

Into one of the sweetest of hotels,

Especially for foreigners—and mostly

For those whom favour or whom fortune swells,

And cannot find a bill's small items costly.

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells

(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie),

Until to some conspicuous square they pass,

And blazon o'er the door their names in brass.

XXXII

Juan, whose was a delicate commission,

Private, though publicly important, bore

No title to point out with due precision

The exact affair on which he was sent o'er.

'Twas merely known, that on a secret mission

A foreigner of rank had grac'd our shore,

Young, handsome and accomplish'd, who was said

(In whispers) to have turn'd his Sovereign's head.

XXXIII

Some rumour also of some strange adventures

Had gone before him, and his wars and loves;

And as romantic heads are pretty painters,

And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures

Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves,

He found himself extremely in the fashion,

Which serves our thinking people for a passion.

XXXIV

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite

The contrary; but then 'tis in the head;

Yet as the consequences are as bright

As if they acted with the heart instead,

What after all can signify the site

Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead

In safety to the place for which you start,

What matters if the road be head or heart?

XXXV

Juan presented in the proper place,

To proper placement, every Russ credential;

And was receiv'd with all the due grimace

By those who govern in the mood potential,

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face,

Thought (what in state affairs is most essential)

That they as easily might do the youngster,

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.

XXXVI

They err'd, as aged men will do; but by

And by we'll talk of that; and if we don't,

'T will be because our notion is not high

Of politicians and their double front,

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie:

Now, what I love in women is, they won't

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

XXXVII

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but

The truth in masquerade; and I defy

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put

A fact without some leaven of a lie.

The very shadow of true Truth would shut

Up annals, revelations, poesy,

And prophecy—except it should be dated

Some years before the incidents related.

XXXVIII

Prais'd be all liars and all lies! Who now

Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy?

She rings the World's "Te Deum," and her brow

Blushes for those who will not: but to sigh

Is idle; let us like most others bow,

Kiss hands, feet, any part of Majesty,

After the good example of "Green Erin,"

Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing.

XXXIX

Don Juan was presented, and his dress

And mien excited general admiration;

I don't know which was more admir'd or less:

One monstrous diamond drew much observation,

Which Catherine in a moment of "ivresse"

(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation)

Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd;

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd.

XL

Besides the ministers and underlings,

Who must be courteous to the accredited

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings,

Until their royal riddle's fully read,

The very clerks—those somewhat dirty springs

Of Office, or the House of Office, fed

By foul corruption into streams—even they

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay.

XLI

And insolence no doubt is what they are

Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour,

In the dear offices of peace or war;

And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour,

When for a passport, or some other bar

To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore),

If he found not this spawn of tax-born riches,

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b{-}{-}{-}{-}{-}s.

XLII

But Juan was receiv'd with much "empressement" —

These phrases of refinement I must borrow

From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman,

There is a move set down for joy or sorrow,

Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man

In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough,

More than on continents—as if the sea

(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free.

XLIII

And yet the British "Damme" 's rather Attic,

Your continental oaths are but incontinent,

And turn on things which no aristocratic

Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent

This subject quote; as it would be schismatic

In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't;

But "Damme" 's quite ethereal, though too daring—

Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing.

XLIV

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home;

For true or false politeness (and scarce that

Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam:

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what

You leave behind, the next of much you come

To meet. However, 'tis no time to chat

On general topics: poems must confine

Themselves to Unity, like this of mine.

XLV

In the great world—which, being interpreted,

Meaneth the West or worst end of a city,

And about twice two thousand people bred

By no means to be very wise or witty,

But to sit up while others lie in bed,

And look down on the Universe with pity—

Juan, as an inveterate patrician,

Was well receiv'd by persons of condition.

XLVI

He was a bachelor, which is a matter

Of import both to virgin and to bride,

The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter;

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride)

'Tis also of some momemt to the latter:

A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side,

Requires decorum, and is apt to double

The horrid sin—and what's still worse the trouble.

XLVII

But Juan was a bachelor—of arts,

And parts, and hearts: he danc'd and sung, and had

An air as sentimental as Mozart's

Softest of melodies; and could be sad

Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts,"

Just at the proper time; and though a lad,

Had seen the world—which is a curious sight,

And very much unlike what people write.

XLVIII

Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames

Bloom'd also in less transitory hues;

For both commodities dwell by the Thames

The painting and the painted; Youth, Ceruse,

Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims,

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse;

Daughters admir'd his dress, and pious mothers

Inquir'd his income, and if he had brothers.

XLIX

The milliners who furnish "drapery Misses"

Throughout the season, upon speculation

Of payment ere the Honeymoon's last kisses

Have wan'd into a crescent's coruscation,

Thought such an opportunity as this is,

Of a rich foreigner's initiation,

Not to be overlook'd—and gave such credit,

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it.

L

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets,

And with the pages of the last Review

Line the interior of their heads or bonnets,

Advanc'd in all their azure's highest hue:

They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its

Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two;

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian?

And whether in his travels he saw Ilion?

LI

Juan, who was a little superficial,

And not in literature a great Drawcansir,

Examin'd by this learned and especial

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer:

His duties warlike, loving or official,

His steady application as a dancer,

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene,

Which now he found was blue instead of green.

LII

However, he replied at hazard, with

A modest confidence and calm assurance,

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith,

And pass'd for arguments of good endurance.

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith

(Who at sixteen translated "Hercules Furens"

Into as furious English), with her best look,

Set down his sayings in her common-place book.

LIII

Juan knew several languages—as well

He might—and brought them up with skill, in time

To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle,

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme.

There wanted but this requisite to swell

His qualities (with them) into sublime:

Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss M{ae}via Mannish,

Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.

LIV

However, he did pretty well, and was

Admitted as an aspirant to all

The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,

At great assemblies or in parties small,

He saw ten thousand living authors pass,

That being about their average numeral;

Also the eighty "greatest living poets,"

As every paltry magazine can show it's .

LV

In twice five years the "greatest living poet,"

Like to the champion in the fisty ring,

Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,

Although 'tis an imaginary thing,

Even I—albeit I'm sure I did not know it,

Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king—

Was reckon'd, a considerable time,

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.

LVI

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero

My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean seem Cain:

"La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero,

Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again,

But I will fall at least as fell my hero;

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign;

Or to some lonely isle of jailors go,

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.

LVII

Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell

Before and after; but now grown more holy,

The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble

With poets almost clergymen, or wholly;

And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley,

Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts,

A modern Ancient Pistol—"by the hilts!"

LVIII

Still he excels that artificial hard

Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine

Yields him but vinegar for his reward—

That neutralis'd dull Dorus of the Nine;

That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard;

That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line:

Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least

The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest.

LIX

Then there's my gentle Euphues, who, they say,

Sets up for being a sort of moral me;

He'll find it rather difficult some day

To turn out both, or either, it may be.

Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway;

And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three;

And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian "Savage Landor"

Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.

LX

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique,

Just as he really promis'd something great,

If not intelligible, without Greek

Contriv'd to talk about the gods of late,

Much as they might have been suppos'd to speak.

Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,

Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

LXI

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders

To that which none will gain—or none will know

The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders

His last award, will have the long grass grow

Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.

If I might augur, I should rate but low

Their chances; they're too numerous, like the thirty

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.

LXII

This is the literary lower empire,

Where the pr{ae}torian bands take up the matter;

A "dreadful trade," like his who "gathers samphire,"

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter,

With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire,

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,

I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries,

And show them what an intellectual war is.

LXIII

I think I know a trick or two, would turn

Their flanks; but it is hardly worth my while,

With such small gear to give myself concern:

Indeed I've not the necessary bile;

My natural temper's really aught but stern,

And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile;

And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy,

And glides away, assur'd she never hurts ye.

LXIV

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril

Amongst live poets and blue ladies, pass'd

With some small profit through that field so sterile,

Being tir'd in time, and, neither least nor last,

Left it before he had been treated very ill;

And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd

Amongst the higher spirits of the day,

The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.

LXV

His morns he pass'd in business—which dissected,

Was, like all business, a laborious nothing

That leads to lassitude, the most infected

And Centaur-Nessus garb of mortal clothing,

And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good—

Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should.

LXVI

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons,

Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour

In riding round those vegetable puncheons

Call'd "Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flower

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings;

But after all it is the only "bower"

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.

LXVII

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar

Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd

Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor

Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd;

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,

Which opens to the thousand happy few

An earthly Paradise of "Or Molu."

LXVIII

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink

With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz,

The only dance which teaches girls to think,

Makes one in love even with its very faults.

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink,

And long the latest of arrivals halts,

'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb,

And gain an inch of staircase at a time.

LXIX

Thrice happy he who, after a survey

Of the good company, can win a corner,

A door that's in or boudoir out of the way,

Where he may fix himself like small "Jack Horner,"

And let the Babel round run as it may,

And look on as a mourner, or a scorner,

Or an approver, or a mere spectator,

Yawning a little as the night grows later.

LXX

But this won't do, save by and by; and he

Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share

Must steer with care through all that glittering sea

Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where

He deems it is his proper place to be;

Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air,

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill,

Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.

LXXI

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views

Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride,

Let him take care that that which he pursues

Is not at once too palpably descried.

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues

His haste; impatience is a blundering guide

Amongst a people famous for reflection,

Who like to play the fool with circumspection.

LXXII

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;

Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:

Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,

Which sits for ever upon Memory's crupper,

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill

Can tender souls relate the rise and fall

Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.

LXXIII

But these precautionary hints can touch

Only the common run, who must pursue,

And watch and ward; whose plans a word too much

Or little overturns; and not the few

Or many (for the number's sometimes such)

Whom a good mien, especially if new,

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense or nonsense,

Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.

LXXIV

Our hero, as a hero young and handsome,

Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger,

Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom

Before he can escape from so much danger

As will environ a conspicuous man. Some

Talk about poetry, and "rack and manger,"

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble—

I wish they knew the life of a young noble.

LXXV

They are young, but know not youth—it is anticipated;

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou;

Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated;

Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew;

Both senates see their nightly votes participated

Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew;

And having voted, din'd, drunk, gam'd and whor'd,

The family vault receives another lord.

LXXVI

"Where is the World," cries Young, "at eighty? Where

The World in which a man was born?" Alas!

Where is the world of eight years past? 'Twas there—

I look for it—'tis gone, a Globe of Glass!

Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gaz'd on, ere

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.

Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,

And dandies—all are gone on the wind's wings.

LXXVII

Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows:

Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell:

Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those

Who bound the Bar or Senate in their spell?

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?

And where the Daughter, whom the Isles lov'd well?

Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents?

And where—oh, where the devil are the Rents?

LXXVIII

Where's Brummell? Dish'd. Where's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.

Where's Whitbread? Romilly? Where's George the Third?

Where is his will? (That's not so soon unriddled.)

And where is "Fum" the Fourth, our "royal bird"?

Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard:

"Caw me, caw thee"—for six months hath been hatching

This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.

LXXIX

Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That?

The Honourable Mistresses and Misses?

Some laid aside like an old Opera hat,

Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is

An evolution oft perform'd of late).

Where are the Dublin shouts—and London hisses?

Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where

My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.

LXXX

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?

Divorc'd or doing thereanent. Ye annals

So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,

Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels

Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies

Of fashion, say what streams now fill those channels?

Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent,

Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.

LXXXI

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes,

Have taken up at length with younger brothers:

Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks:

Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers:

Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks:

In short, the list of alterations bothers.

There's little strange in this, but something strange is

The unusual quickness of these common changes.

LXXXII

Talk not of seventy years as age! in seven

I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to

The humblest individuals under heaven,

Than might suffice a moderate century through.

I knew that nought was lasting, but now even

Change grows too changeable, without being new:

Nought's permanent among the human race,

Except the Whigs not getting into place.

LXXXIII

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter,

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke

(No matter which) turn politician stupider,

If that can well be, than his wooden look.

But it is time that I should hoist my "blue Peter,"

And sail for a new theme: I have seen—and shook

To see it—the King hiss'd, and then caress'd;

But don't pretend to settle which was best.

LXXXIV

I have seen the Landholders without a rap—

I have seen Joanna Southcote—I have seen

The House of Commons turn'd to a taxtrap—

I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen—

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap—

I have seen a Congress doing all that's mean—

I have seen some nations, like o'erloaded asses,

Kick off their burthens—meaning the high classes.

LXXXV

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and

Interminable—not eternal—speakers—

I have seen the funds at war with house and land—

I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers—

I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand

By slaves on horseback—I have seen malt liquors

Exchang'd for "thin potations" by John Bull—

I have seen John half detect himself a fool.

LXXXVI

But "carpe diem," Juan, "carpe, carpe!"

To-morrow sees another race as gay

And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy.

"Life's a poor player"—then "play out the play,

Ye villains!" and above all keep a sharp eye

Much less on what you do than what you say:

Be hypocritical, be cautious, be

Not what you seem, but always what you see.

LXXXVII

But how shall I relate in other cantos

Of what befell our hero in the land,

Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as

A moral country? But I hold my hand—

For I disdain to write an Atalantis;

But 'tis as well at once to understand,

You are not a moral people, and you know it,

Without the aid of too sincere a poet.

LXXXVIII

What Juan saw and underwent shall be

My topic, with of course the due restriction

Which is requir'd by proper courtesy;

And recollect the work is only fiction,

And that I sing of neither mine nor me,

Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction,

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt

This—when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out.

LXXXIX

Whether he married with the third or fourth

Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess,

Or whether with some virgin of more worth

(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties),

He took to regularly peopling Earth,

Of which your lawful, awful wedlock fount is—

Or whether he was taken in for damages,

For being too excursive in his homages—

XC

Is yet within the unread events of time.

Thus far, go forth, thou Lay, which I will back

Against the same given quantity of rhyme,

For being as much the subject of attack

As ever yet was any work sublime,

By those who love to say that white is black.

So much the better!—I may stand alone,

But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.

5. The Corsair

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

'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!

V.
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!

X.
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:

1.
'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

2.
'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.

3.
'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.

4.
'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

I.
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?'

V.
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.

X.
'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

I.
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.

V.
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!

X.
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.