Through guards and dunnest night how came it there?
Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare?
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare!
She could not sleep-and while the Pacha's rest
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest,
She left his side-his signet-ring she bore,
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before-
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey.
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows,
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose;
And chill and nodding at the turret door,
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more:
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring,
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring.
She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep,
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?
And mine in restlessness are wandering here-
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear?
True-'tis to him my life, and more, I owe,
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe!
"Tis late to think-but soft-his slumber breaks-
How heavily he sighs!-he starts-awakes!"
He raised his head-and dazzled with the light,
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright:
He moved his hand-the grating of his chain
Too harshly told him that he lived again.
"What is that form? if not a shape of air,
Methinks, my jailor's face shews wondrous fair!"
"Pirate! thou know'st me not-but I am one,
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done;
Look on me-and remember her thy hand
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band.
I come through darkness-and I scarce know why-
Yet not to hurt-I would not see thee die."
"If so, kind lady! thine the only eye
That would not here in that gay hope delight:
Theirs is the chance-and let them use their right.
But still I thank their courtesy or thine,
That would confess me at so fair a shrine!"
Strange though it seem-yet with extremest grief
Is link'd a mirth-it doth not bring relief-
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles,
And smiles in bitterness-but still it smiles;
And sometimes with the wisest and the best,
Till even the scaffold* echoes with their jest!
* In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she remarked, that it was too slender to trouble the headsman much." During one part of the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave some "mot" as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size.
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
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.
"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
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:
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,
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.
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;
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!
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were so 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,
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 Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove To meet his passion-but it would not be.
I felt I 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!
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,
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.
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-
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.
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;
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!"
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? 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!
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?
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.
"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,
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,
Chill-wet-and misty round each stiffen❜d limb,
Refreshing earth-reviving all but him!—
"Come vedi-ancor non m'abbandona."-Dante.
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!
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,
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,
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 watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still!
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 Citharon's head,
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 :
*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.
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.*
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams 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 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, †
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 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.†
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,
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain-
Would that with freedom it were thine again!
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!
*The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration.
The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; 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.
The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem; but they were written on the spot in the spring of 1811, and-I scarce know why-the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can.
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