Would that of this my Pacha were the lord! | |
While baffled, weaken’d by this fatal fray – | |
150 | 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; | |
155 | 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; | |
160 | 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; | |
165 | 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 | |
170 | 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, | |
175 | 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. | |
180 | 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: | |
185 | ’Tis not |
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 – | |
190 | 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, | |
195 | 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. | |
200 | 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, | |
205 | 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 never tame - | |
210 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 | |
215 | 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: | |
220 | 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 | |
225 | 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: | |
230 | 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, | |
235 | 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. | |
240 | 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 – | |
245 | 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: | |
250 | 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, | |
255 | And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; |
And now its dashing echo’d 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; | |
260 | 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 | |
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray’d | |
265 | 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 – ceased – he felt alone, | |
As if some faithless friend had spurn’d his groan! | |
VIII | |
270 | 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, | |
275 | 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! | |
280 | 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 should’st thou seek an outlaw’s life to spare, | |
285 | 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? | |
290 | 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: | |
295 | 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. | |
300 | If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, |