Till even the scaffold | |
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 | |
455 | 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 | |
460 | ‘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 | |
465 | 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: | |
470 | 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 | |
475 | 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. | |
480 | 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; | |
485 | 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! | |
490 | 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, | |
495 | Who never feel the void – the wandering thought |
That sighs o’er visions – such as mine hath wrought.’ | |
‘Lady – methought thy love was his, for whom |
This arm redeem’d thee from a fiery tomb.’ | |
‘My love stern Seyd’s! Oh – No – No – not my love - | |
500 | Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove |
To meet his passion – but it would not be. | |
I felt – 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! | |
505 | 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, | |
510 | 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. | |
515 | No warmth these lips return by his imprest, |
And chill’d remembrance shudders o’er the rest. | |
Yes – had I ever proved that passion’s zeal, | |
The change to hatred were at least to feel: | |
But still – he goes unmourn’d – returns unsought – | |
520 | 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. | |
525 | 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; | |
530 | 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 | |
535 | She press’d his fetter’d fingers to her heart, |
And bow’d her head, and turn’d her to depart, | |
And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. | |
And was she here? and is he now alone? | |
What gem hath dropp’d and sparkles o’er his chain? | |
540 | The tear most sacred, shed for others’ pain, |
That starts at once – bright – pure – from Pity’s mine, | |
Already polish’d by the hand divine! | |
Oh! too convincing – dangerously dear – | |
In woman’s eye the unanswerable tear! | |
545 | 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? | |
550 | 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 | |
555 | ’Tis morn – and o’er his alter’d features play |
The beams – without the hope of yesterday. | |
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing | |
O’er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: | |
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, | |
560 | While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, |
Chill – wet – and misty round each stiffen’d limb, | |
Refreshing earth – reviving all but him! – |
Canto the Third | |
‘Come vedi – ancor non m’abbandona.’ | |
D | |
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! | |
5 | 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, | |
10 | 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, | |
15 | 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, | |
20 | 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 | |
Not yet - not yet - Sol pauses on the hill - | |
The precious hour of parting lingers still; | |
25 | 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, | |
30 | 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. | |
35 | 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, | |
40 | 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, | |
45 | 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, | |
50 | 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 | |
55 | 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, | |
60 | Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? |
Not he – whose heart nor time nor distance frees, | |
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! | |
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, | |
His Corsair’s isle was once thine own domain – | |
65 | 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! | |
70 | The wind was fair though light; and storms were none. |
Last eve Anselmo’s bark return’d, and yet | |
His only tidings that they had not met! | |
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale | |
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. | |
75 | 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 | |
80 | 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! | |
85 | It came at last – a sad and shatter’d boat, |
Whose immates first beheld whom first they sought; | |
Some bleeding – all most wretched – these the few – | |
Scarce knew they how escaped – | |
In silence, darkling, each appear’d to wait | |
90 | 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, | |
95 | 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, | |
100 | ‘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 | |
What – speak not – breathe not – for I know it well – | |
105 | 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.’ | |
110 | 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 snatch’d her from another grave; | |
115 | 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 | |
120 | 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; | |
125 | 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, | |
130 | 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; | |
135 | 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 | |
140 | But inly views his victim as he bleeds. |
‘Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest | |
Sits Triumph - Conrad taken - fall’n the rest! | |
His doom is fix’d – he dies: and well his fate | |
Was earn’d – yet much too worthless for thy hate: | |
145 | Methinks, a short release, for ransom told |
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold; | |
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard – |