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 seek 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—by 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 loathed 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 (1)
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;

sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.

(1) "There were two islands in the Archipelago, when Lord Byron was in Greece, considered as the chief haunts of the pirates

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye 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!"-'t is
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;
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 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 stern.
'T is mann'd-the oars keep concert to the strand.
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.

Stampalia, and a long narrow island between Cape Colonna and Zea. Jura also was a little tainted in its reputation. I think, however, from the description, that the Pirate's isle of the Corsair is the island off Cape Colonna. It is a rude rocky mass." Gall.

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—'t is 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 crig to claff 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?
"T is he 't is 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 expressed 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, [short.
Much that"-"Peace, peace!"-he cuts their prating
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,

(1) "In the features of Conrad, those who have looked upon Lord Byron will recognise some likeness; and the ascetic regi

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!
'T is 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; (1)
They gaze and marvel how-and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.

men which the noble poet himself observed was no less marked in the preceding description of Conrad's fare. To what are we to

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 soothed 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 past,
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-night (but blow, thou breeze!)
To warm these slow avengers of the seas.
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!
Even insects sting for aught they seek to save.

queror of both Carthage and Rome), staturâ mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus, luxuriæ contemptor, irâ turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes providentissimus,” etc. etc.-Jornandes de Rebus Geticis, c.33. I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in countenance my Giaour and Corsair.

This common courage which with brutes we share,
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair,
Small merit claims-but 't was 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-nor yet too late."
XIV.

Thus with himself communion held he, till
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill:
There at the portal paused-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 the 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 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!

["In the portrait of Conrad, some of the darker features and harsher lineaments of Byron himself are very evident, but with a more fixed sternness than belonged to him; for it was only by fits that he could put on such severity. Conrad is a higher creation than any which he had previously described." Gull.]