A flash is seen-the ball beyond their bow
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below.
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance,
A long, long absent gladness in his glance;
"Tis mine-my blood-red flag! again-again-
I am not all deserted on the main!"
They own the signal, answer to the 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,
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand,
And feels he yet can conquer and command!
These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow;
They sail'd prepared for vengeance-had they known
A woman's hand secured that deed her own,
She were their queen-less scrupulous are they
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way.
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare,
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare;
And her, at once above-beneath her sex,
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex.
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye,
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by;
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast,
Which-Conrad safe-to fate resign'd the rest.
Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill,
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,
The worst of crimes had left her woman still!
This Conrad mark'd, and felt-ah! could he less?-
Hate of that deed-but grief for her distress;
What she has done no tears can wash away,
And Heaven must punish on its angry day:
But it was done: he knew, whate'er her guilt,
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt
And he was free!-and she for him had given
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven!
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave,
Who now seem'd changed and humbled:-faint and meek.
But varying oft the colour of her cheek
To deeper shades of paleness-all its red
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead!
He took that hand-it trembled-now too late-
So soft in love-so wildly nerved in hate;
He clasp'd that hand-it trembled—and his own
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone.
"Gulnare!"—but she replied not-" dear Gulnare!"
She raised her eye-her only answer there-
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace:
If he had driven her from that resting-place,
His had been more or less than mortal heart,
But-good or ill-it bade her not depart.
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast,
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest.
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this,
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith-
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath,
To lips--whose broken sighs such fragrance fling,
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing!
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,
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?
The lights are high on beacon and from bower,
And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:
He looks in vain 't is strange-and all remark,
Amid so many, her's alone is dark.
"Tis strange-of yore its welcome never fail'd,
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd.
With the first boat descends he for the shore,
And looks impatient on the lingering oar.
Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,
To bear him like an arrow to that height!
With the first pause the resting rowers gave,
He waits not looks not-leaps into the wave,
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high
Ascends the path familiar to his eye.
He reach'd his turret door-he paused-no sound
Broke from within; and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly-footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;
He knock'd-but faintly-for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens-'t is 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-
As soon could he have linger'd there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore,
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold!
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,
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
And that cold flowers 16 her colder hand contain'd,
In the 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 veild-thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below--
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips-
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile
And wish'd repose-but only for 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?
He ask'd no question-all were answer'd now By the first glance on that still-marble brow. It was enough-she died-what reck'd it how?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,
The only living thing he could not hate,
Was reft at once-and he deserved his fate,
But did not feel it less;-the good explore,
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar
The proud-the wayward-who have fix'd below
Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo,
Lose in that one their all-perchance & 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, is ill exprest
The indistinctness of the suffering breast;
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one,
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none;
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo.
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest;
So feeble now-his mother's softness crept
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept:
It was the very weakness of his brain,
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flow'd-he dried them to 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!
His heart was form'd for softness-warp'd to wrong,
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure-as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot; like that had harden'd too;
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd,
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock,
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock.
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,
Though dark the shade-it shelter'd-saved till now
The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both,
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth:
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell,
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!
'Tis morn-to venture on his lonely hour
Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower
He was not there-nor seen along the shore
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er
Another morn-another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount-grotto-cavern-valley search'd in vain,
They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain:
Their hope revives-they follow o'er the main.
"T is idle all-moons roll on moons away,
And Conrad comes not-came not since that day:
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair.
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside;
And fair the monument they gave his bride:
For him they raise not the recording stone-
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known;
He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.""
THE time in this poem may seem too short for the [the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the occurrences, but the whole of the Egean isles are colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.
Note 1 page 109, line 18.
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.
Orlando, Canto 10.
Note 2, page 110, line 10.
Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke.
By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke
of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed
by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water.
Note 3, page 110, line 17.
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice.
Note 4, page 110, line 79.
The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply.
Pipe.
Note 5, page 110, line 80.
While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy.
Dancing girls.
Note to Canto II. page 110, line 93.
It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy is out of nature.-Perhaps so. I find some thing not unlike it in history.
"Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of
mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an aneodote may be rejected as an improbable fiction; but it is a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero." Gibbon, D. and F. vol. vi. p. 180.
That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature I shall attempt to prove by some historical coinci dences which have met with since writing "The Corsair."
"Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, " s'enfermoit dans un silence menaçant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage féroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor à sa profonde indig. nation.-De toutes parts cependant les soldats et les peuples accouroient; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie universelle éclatoit de toutes parts.
"Eccelin étoit d'une petite taille; mais tout l'aspect de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un soldat.-Son langage étoit amer, son déportement superbe et par son seul égard, il faisoit trembler les plus hardis." Sismondi, tome 111. page 219, 220.
"Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the conqueror of both Carthage and Rome) staturâ mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone ratus. luxuriæ contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus ad solicitandas gentes providentissimus," &c. &c. Jornandes de Rebus Geticis, c. 33.
I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep believe, were informed of the situation, history, or na in countenance my Giaour and Corsair.
Note 11, page 114, line 80.
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day. Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset, (the hour of execution,) notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.
Note 12, page 114, line 92.
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our wn country: the days in winter are longer, but in er of shorter duration.
Note 13, page 114, line 102.
ture of that establishment. For the information of such
as were unacquainted with it, we have procured from
a friend the following interesting narrative of the mair.
cannot fail to interest some of our readers.
facts, of which he has personal knowledge, and which.
Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of Mexico: it runs through a rich but very flat country until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It communi and these, with the lake of the same name, and which cates with three lakes which lie on the southwest side, lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and west points of this island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates under the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of that class of the population of the state of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba: and when the last war between France and Spain com menced, they were compelled to leave that island with the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of them the state of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor of that State of the clause in the constitution which for bad the importation of slaves; but, at the same time, received the assurance of the Governor that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the General Government for their retaining this property.
The Island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 deg. 15 min. lon. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell-fish with which its de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana; and to break up the establishment, he thought proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered sum-reward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte who was well known to the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, and his once having been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the property, That frown*-where gentler ocean seems to smile. and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. The opening lines as far as section II. have, perhaps, This company, under the command of a man who had little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, ap(though printed) poem; but they were written on the proached very near to the fortified island, before he saw spot in the spring of 1811, and—I scarce know why-a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can.
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. The Kiosk is a Turkish summerhouse: the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes.-Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.
Note 14, page 114, line 112.
Note 15, page 115, line 66.
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads.
unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed men who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed his tew
The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads noble traits; for to this man, who had come to destroy are in number ninety-nine.
Note 16, page 130, line 9.
And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd. In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young person to place a nosegay.
Note 17, page 133, last line.
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. That the point of honour which is represented in one instance of Conrad's character has not been carried beyond the bounds of probability may perhaps be in some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a
brother Buccaneer in the year 1814.
Our readers have all seen the account of the enterprise against the pirates of Barrataria; but few, we
• See" Cursɩ of Minerva."
his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his life, but offered him that which would have made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days, which was indignantly refused. He then, with the ap probation of his captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our naval force having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment could not be expected from them until augmented; for an officer of the navy, with most of the gunboats on that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the navy
authorized an attack, one was made; the overthrow of this banditti has been the result; and now this almost invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold ut by a strong military force.-From an American Newepuper.
In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been History, there is a singular passage in his account of directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it nected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing possible a bucaneer should have been so good a scholar poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. as Blackbourne certainly was? he who had so perfect "There is something mysterious in the history and a knowledge of the classics, (particularly of the Greek character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but tragedians,) as to be able to read them with the same imperfectly known; and report has even asserted he ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great was a bucaneer; and that one of his brethren in that pains to acquire the learned languages; and have had profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubthad become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was an-edly educated at Christchurch College, Oxford. He swered, he is archbishop of York. We are informed, is allowed to have been a pleasant man: this, however, that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter, in was turned against him, by its being said, he gained 1694, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his more hearts than souls."" successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he became dean; and, in 1714, hold with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was "The only voice that could sooth the passions of the consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and savage, (Alphonso 3d,) was that of an amiable and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, virtuous wife, the sole object of his love; the voice of according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have and the granddaughter of Philip 2d, King of Spain.been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he be- Her dying words sunk deep into his memory; his fierce haved with great prudence, and was equally respectable spirit melted into tears; and after the last embrace, as the guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irrewhispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of life."-Miscellaneous Works of Gibbon, New Edition his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted by 8vo. vol. iii. page 473.
THE Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord,
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored;
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.
The chief of Lara is return'd again:
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself;-that heritage of wo,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!-
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.
And Lara left in youth his father-land;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till ail
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
"T was all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sen., nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few
૨
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died,
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient herr
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace,
The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file,
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.
He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need not grass;
They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er,
Not that he came, but came not long before:
No train is his beyond a single page,
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
To those that wander as to those that stay;
But lack of tidings from another clime
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem
The present dubious, or the past a dream.
He lives, nor yet is past his manhoood's prime,
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time;
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot,
Might be untaught him by his varied lot;
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame:
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins;
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course,
Might be redeem'd. nor ask a long remorse.
And they indeed were changed-'tis quickly see:
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been:
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last,
And spake of passions, but of passion past:
The pride, but not the fire, of early days,
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise;
A high demeanour, and a glance that took
Their thoughts from others by a single look;
And that sarcastic levity of tongue,
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,
That darts in seeming playfulness around,
And makes those feel that will not own the wound;
All these seem'd his, and something more beneath,
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe.
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim,
That some can conquer, and that all would claim,
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive,
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive;
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace
At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face.
Not much he loved long question of the past,
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast,
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone,
And-as himself would have it seem-unknown:
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan,
Nor glean experience from his fellow man;
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show,
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know;
If still more prying such inquiry grew,
His brow fell darker, and his words more few.
Not unrejoiced to see him once again,
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men;
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command,
He mingled with the Magnates of his land;
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay,
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away;
But still he only saw, and did not share
The common pleasure or the general care;
He did not follow what they all pursued
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd;
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain,
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain:
Around him some mysterious circle thrown
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone;
Upon his eye sate something of reproof,
That kept at least frivolity aloof;
And things more timid that beheld him near,
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear;
And they the wiser, friendlier few confest
They deem'd him better than his air exprest.
'T was strange-in youth all action and all life,
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife;
Woman-the field-the ocean-all that gave,
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
In turn he tried-he ransack'd all below,
And found his recompense in joy or wo,
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought
In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements hath raised;
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high,
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme,
How woke he from the wildness of that dream?
Alas! he told not-but he did awake
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break.
Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day From all communion he would start away:
And then, his rarely call'd attendants said,
Through night's long hours would sound his hurried treas
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd
In rude but antique portraiture around:
They heard, but whisper'd-that must not be known-
The sound of words less earthly than his own.
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen
They scarce knew what, but more than should have beer
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head
Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead,
That still beside his open'd volume lay,
As if to startle all save him away?
Why slept he not when others were at rest?
Why heard no music, and received no guest?
All was not well, they deem'd--but where the wrong?
Some knew perchance-but 't were a tale too long:
And such besides were too discreetly wise,
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise:
But if they would-they could"-around the board
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their Lord.
It was the night-and Lara's glassy stream
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam;
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray,
And yet they glide like happiness away;
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high
The immortal lights that live along the sky:
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee;
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove,
And Innocence would offer to her love,
These deck the shore; the waves their channel mak
In windings bright and mazy like the snake.
All was so still, so soft in earth and air,
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there
Secure that nought of evil could delight
To walk in such a scene, on such a night!
It was a moment only for the good:
So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood,
But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate;
Such scene his soul no more could contemplate:
Such scene reminded him of other days,
Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze,
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now.
No-no-the storm may beat upon his brow,
Unfelt-unsparing-but a night like this,
A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his.
He turn'd within his solitary hall,
And his high shadow shot along the wall;
There were the painted forms of other times,
'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes,
Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults;
And half a column of the pompous page,
That speeds the specious tale from age to age,
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies,
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies.
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone,
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer,
Reflected in fantastic figures grew,
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view;
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom,
And the wide waving of his shaken plume,
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave
His aspect all that terror gives the grave.
"T was midnight—all was slumber; the lone light Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the might. Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall-A sound-a voice-a shriek-a fearful call!
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