Posts
THE CORSAIR,
A TALE.
BY LORD BYRON.
"——I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno."
Tasso, Canto decimo, Gerusalemme Liberata.
Tasso, Canto decimo, Gerusalemme Liberata.
SEVENTH EDITION.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET;
By Thomas Davison, Whitefriars.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET;
By Thomas Davison, Whitefriars.
1814.
TO
THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.
THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.
MY DEAR MOORE,
I dedicate to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots—while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree—permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental, his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but wildness, tenderness, and originality are part of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable?—Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but for some years to come it is my intention to tempt no further the award of "Gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet :—the stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I confess, it is the measure most after my own heart; Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius. In blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure certainly; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present and will be of my future regret.
With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so—if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of "drawing from self," the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than "The Giaour," and perhaps—but no—I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever "alias" they please.
If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends—the poet of all circles—and the idol of his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself,
most truly,
and affectionately,
his obedient servant,
BYRON.
January 2, 1814.THE CORSAIR,
A TALE.
CANTO I.
"————nessun maggior dolore,
"Che ricordarsi del tempo felice "Nella miseria,————————"
Dante.
|
I.
| "O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, "Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, "Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, "Survey our empire and behold our home! "These are our realms, no limits to their sway— "Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. "Ours the wild life in tumult still to range "From toil to rest, and joy in every change. "Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! "Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; 10 "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 danc’d 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— 20 "Feel—to the rising bosom's inmost core, "Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? "No dread of death—if with us die our foes— "Save that it seems even duller than repose: "Come when it will—we snatch the life of life— "When lost—what recks it—by disease or strife? "Let him who crawls enamoured 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. 30 "While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul, "Ours with one pang—one bound—escapes controul. "His corse may boast it's 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, 40 "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 scattered 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: 50 Repair the boat—replace the helm or oar, While others straggling muse along the shore; For the wild bird the busy springes set, Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net: Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, With all the thirsting eye of Enterprize— 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. 60 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; 70 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 enquire his will; 80 To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye Convey reproof, nor further deign reply.
III.
"A sail!—a sail!"—a promised prize to Hope!Her nation—flag—how speaks the telescope? No prize, alas!—but yet a welcome sail: The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. Yes—she is our's—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; 90 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 stern. 100 '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— 109 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 surprize, "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: 120 "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 scattered 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? 130 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. 140 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—abashed—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; 150 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 anchored 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?" "Aye! at set of sun: 160 "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 it's 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." 170
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. 180 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! Linked 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; 190 '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 eye-brow shades a glance of fire: Robust but not Herculean—to the sight No giant frame sets forth his common height; 200 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-burnt 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: 210 His features' deepening lines and varying hue At times attracted, yet perplexed 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 enquiry 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, 220 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 sighed farewell!
X.
Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,Within—within—'twas there the spirit wrought! 230 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: 240 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? 250
XI.
Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sentTo lead the guilty—guilt's worst instrument— His soul was changed—before his deeds had driven Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, In words too wise—in conduct there a fool— Too firm to yield—and far too proud to stoop— Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, He curs'd those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betrayed him still; 260 Nor deem'd that gifts bestowed 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. 270 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 surprize; 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 doomed offender's form it clings— And he may crush—not conquer—still it stings!
XII.
None are all evil—clinging round his heart,One softer feeling would not yet depart; 280 Oft could he sneer at others as beguil'd 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. 290 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; 300 Which nought remov'd—nor menaced to remove— If there be love in mortals—this was love! He was a villain—aye—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 menPass'd the first winding downward to the glen. "Strange tidings!—many a peril have I passed, "Nor know I why this next appears the last! 310 "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-night (but blow, thou breeze!) "To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 320 "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! 330 "So let it be—it irks not me to die; "But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly— "My lot hath long had little of my care, "But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare: "Is this my skill? my craft? to set at last "Hope, power and life upon a single cast? "Oh, Fate!—accuse thy folly—not thy fate— "She may redeem thee still—nor yet too late."
XIV.
Thus with himself communion held he—tillHe reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: 340 There at the portal paus'd—for wild and soft He heard those accents never heard too oft; Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, And these the notes 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 lampBurns the slow flame eternal—but unseen; 350 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 graveWithout 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 asked—a tear, The first—last—sole reward of so much love!" 360 He passed the portal, cross'd the corridore, And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: "My own Medora—sure thy song is sad—" "In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? "Without thine ear to listen to my lay, "Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray: "Still must each accent to my bosom suit, "My heart unhush'd—although my lips were mute! "Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclin'd, 369 "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, 380 "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 past! "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, 390 "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, 400 "My very love to thee is hate to them, "So closely mingling here, that disentwin'd, "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! 410 "Yon bark hath hardly anchored 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 would'st 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! 420 "See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, "And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd "At such as seem'd the fairest: thrice the hill "My steps have wound to try the coolest rill; "Yes! thy Sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, "See how it sparkles in its vase of snow! "The grape's 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. 430 "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 lov'd and left of old.1 "Why—thou wert worse than he who broke his vow "To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now; 440 "Or even that traitor chief—I've seen thee smile, "When the clear sky showed Ariadne's Isle, "Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while: "And thus—half sportive—half in fear—I said, "Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, "Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main: "And he deceiv'd 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 450 "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 prepar'd: "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, 460 "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, That downcast droop'd in tearless agony. Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, In all the wildness of dishevelled charms; Scarce beat that bosom—where his image dwelt— 470 So full—that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! Hark—peals the thunder of the signal-gun! It told 'twas sunset—and he curs'd 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 480How 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 refus'd 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: 490 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 phrenzied 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, Convuls'd 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; 500 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate— "It is no dream—and I am desolate!"
XVI.
From crag to crag descending—swiftly spedStern 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 hailed him first when homeward from the deep: And she—the dim and melancholy star, Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 510 On her he must not gaze, he must not think, There he might rest—but on Destruction's brink— Yet once almost he stopp'd—and nearly gave His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; But no—it must not be—a worthy chief May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, And sternly gathers all his might of mind: Again he hurries on—and as he hears The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 520 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 anchor's 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; 530 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: 540 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 wished to win, so well unbent, That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, And others' gifts shewed mean beside his word— When echoed 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;— 550 The evil passions of his youth had made Him value less who loved—than what obeyed.
XVII.
Around him mustering ranged his ready guard.Before him Juan stands—"Are all prepared?" "They are—nay more—embarked: the latest boat "Waits but my chief——" "My sword, and my capote." Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung; "Call Pedro here!" He comes—and Conrad bends, With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends; 560 "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' phosphoric2 brightness broke; 570 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! 580 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? Mean time, the steady breeze serenely blew, And fast and Falcon-like the vessel flew; 590 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. 600 Then rose his band to duty—not from sleep— Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep; While leaned their leader o'er the fretting flood, And calmly talk'd—and yet he talk'd of blood! CANTO II.
"Conosceste i dubbiosi desiri?"
Dante.
I.
|
"Come vedi—ancor non m'abbandona"
Dante.
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, 1170 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'a 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 gulph, unconquer'd Salamis! Their azure arches through the long expanse 1180 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven; Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When—Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last. How watched thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murder'd sage's11 latest day! Not yet—not yet—Sol pauses on the hill— 1190 The precious hour of parting lingers still; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, The land, where Phœbus never frown'd before, But ere he sunk 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 liv'd and died, as none can live or die! But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, 1200 The queen of night asserts her silent reign.12 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 scattered dark and wide Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide. The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 1210 The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,13 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 chaf'd breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, 1220 That frown—where gentler ocean seems to smile.14
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 forget? Not he—whose heart nor time nor distance frees, Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 1230 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, 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 1240 Had Conrad waited for that single sail. The night-breeze freshens—she that day had past In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast; Sadly she sate—on high—Impatience bore At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, And there she wandered heedless of the spray That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away: She saw not—felt not this—nor dared depart, Nor deemed it cold—her chill was at her heart; Till grew such certainty from that suspense— 1250 His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense! It came at last—a sad and shattered 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 appeared to wait His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate. Something they would have said; but seemed to fear To trust their accents to Medora's ear. She saw at once, yet sunk not—trembled not— 1260 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 might Delirium gathers from the fever's height. "Silent you stand—nor would I hear you tell 1270 "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 1280 Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave; But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies: Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, Raise—fan—sustain—till life returns anew; Awake her handmaids—with the matrons leave That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve; Then seek Anselmo's cavern to report The tale too tedious—when the triumph short.
IV.
In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 1290With 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 sateStern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 1300 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,15 But inly views his victim as he bleeds. "Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest "Sits Triumph—Conrad taken—fall'n the rest! "His doom is fix'd—he dies—and well his fate 1310 "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—weakened by this fatal fray— "Watch'd—followed—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 1320 "Were offered 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, 1330 "Too justly moved for mercy to assuage; "My thoughts were only to secure for thee "His riches—thus released, he were not free: "Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, "His capture could but wait thy first command." "His capture could!—and shall I then resign "One day to him—the wretch already mine? "Release my foe!—at whose remonstrance?—thine! "Fair suitor!—to thy virtuous gratitude, "That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 1340 "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; 1350 "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 be 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!" 1360 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 incens'd could dare. His doubts appeared 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; 1370 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 sameRoll'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 echoed by the gate, Might entering lead where axe and stake await; 1380 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 decayed—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 fettered solitude, To pine, the prey of every changing mood; 1390 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; 1400 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! 1410
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! 1420 Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; And now its dashing echoed on his ear, A long known voice—alas! too vainly near! Loud sung the wind above—and, doubly loud, Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud; And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, To him more genial than the midnight star: Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 1430 He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and prayed 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 waxed fainter—ceased—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! 1440 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 1449 "What last proclaim'd they—Conrad still the same: "Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, "And change the sentence I deserve to bear? "Well have I earn'd—nor here alone—the meed "Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." "Why should I seek? because—Oh! didst thou not "Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? "Why should I seek?—hath misery made thee blind "To the fond workings of a woman's mind! "And must I say? albeit my heart rebel "With all that woman feels but should not tell— 1460 "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? 1470 "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 would'st be free, "Receive this poignard—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. 1480 "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— "Accus'd of what till now my heart disdain'd— "Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 1490 "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, 1500 "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? 1510 "I saw thee—loved thee—owe thee all—would save, "If but to shew 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! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not start, "Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart, 1520 " '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!" "Gulnare—Gulnare—I never felt till now "My abject fortune—withered 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; 1530 "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 shewn 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. 1540 "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; 1550 "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 followed 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 fettered limbs allow, pursued. 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where That passage led—nor lamp nor guard were there: 1560 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 reached 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. 1570 With hasty step a figure outward past, Then paused—and turn'd—and paused—'tis She at last! No poignard in that hand—nor sign of ill— "Thanks to that softening heart—she could not kill!" Again he looked, 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. 1580 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 loneO'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown— He had been tempted—chastened—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— 1590 So thrill'd—so shuddered 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 viewed—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— 1600 "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 vassals—Greek and Moor; Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind! But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, As if they there transferr'd that iron weight— 1610 No words are uttered—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 review! 1620 Sunk he in contemplation—till the cape Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. Ah!—since that fatal night, though brief the time, Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, He veil'd his face, and sorrowed as he past; He thought of all—Gonsalvo and his band. His fleeting triumph and his failing hand; He thought on her afar, his lonely bride— He turned and saw—Gulnare, the homicide! 1630
XIV.
She watch'd his features till she could not bearTheir 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 prest, "Thou may'st forgive though Alla'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! 1640 "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 upbraidThan her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made; But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, They bleed within that silent cell—his breast. Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, The blue waves sport around the stern they urge; Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck— A spot—a mast—a sail—an armed deck! 1650 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!" 1660 They own the signal, answer to the hail. 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 forbear a rough embrace. He—half forgetting danger and defeat, Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 1670 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; 1680 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 phrenzy 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: 1690Hate of that deed—but grief for her distress; What she had done no tears can wash away, And heaven must punish on its angry day: But—it was done—he knew, whatever her guilt, For him that poignard 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 bowed beneath the glance he gave, 1699 Who now seemed changed and humbled:—faint and meek, But varying oft the colour of her cheek To deeper shades of paleness—all it's 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 it's firmness, and his voice it's tone. "Gulnare!"—but she replied not—"dear Gulnare!" She raised her eye—her only answer there— At once she sought and sunk in his embrace: 1710 If he had driven her from that resting place, His had been more or less than mortal hearty But—good or ill—it bade her not depart. Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, His latest virtue then had joined the rest. Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss That asked 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, 1720 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 blaze their wonted stations round, The boats are darting o'er the curly bay. And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek, Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 1730 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, her's alone is dark. 'Tis strange—of yore its welcome never fail'd, Nor now, perchance, extinguished, only veil'd. With the first boat descends he for the shore, 1740 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 1750 Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh; He knock'd—but faintly—for his trembling hand Refus'd 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; He snatch'd the lamp—its light will answer all— It quits his grasp—expiring in the fall. He would not wait for that reviving ray— 1760 As soon could he have lingered there for day; But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor; His steps the chamber gain—his eyes behold All that his heart believed not—yet foretold!
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 itself she was so still and fair, 1770 That death with gentler aspect withered there; And the cold flowers 16 her colder hand contain'd, In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, And made it almost mockery yet to weep: The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow— And veil'd—thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below— Oh! o'er the eye death most exerts his might, And hurls the spirit from her throne of light! Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 1780 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 a while; But the white shroud, and each extended tress, Long—fair—but spread in utter lifelessness. Which, late the sport of every summer wind. Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind; These—and the pale pure cheek, became the bier— But she is nothing—wherefore is he here?
XXI.
He ask'd no question—all were answer'd now 1790By 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 deserv'd 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 fixed below Their joy—and find this earth enough for woe, 1800 Lose in that one their all—perchance a mite— But who in patience parts with all delight? Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; And many a withering thought lies hid—not lost— In smiles that least befit who wear them most.
XXII.
By those, that deepest feel, are ill exprestThe indistinctness of the suffering breast; Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; 1810 No words suffice the secret soul to show. And 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: 1820 Nor long they flowed—he dried them to depart, In helpless—hopeless—brokenness of heart: The sun goes forth—but Conrad's day is dim— And the night cometh—ne'er to pass from him— There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, On Grief's vain eye—the blindest of the blind! Which may not—dare not see—but turns aside To blackest shade—nor will endure a guide!
XXIII.
His heart was form'd for softness—warp'd to wrong—Betray'd too early, and beguil'd too long; 1830 Each feeling pure—as falls the dropping dew Within the grot; like that had harden'd too;— Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock; If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, Though dark the shade—it shelter'd,—saved till now. The thunder came—that bolt hath blasted both, The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth: 1840 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 hourFew 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; 1850 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— 1860 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. |
No comments:
Post a Comment