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And felt that all which Freedom's bosom cheers,
Must break my chain before it dried my tears.
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape,
They little deem of aught in peril's shape;
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance
That leads me here if eyed with vigilance:
The careless guard that did not see me fly
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh.
Pacha!--my limbs are faint — and nature craves
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves:
Permit my absence-peace be with thee! Peace
With all around!-now grant repose-release."

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Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man,
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan;
Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest,
And less respect for every fellow guest.
Twas but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd
Along his cheek, and tranquillised as fast :
He sate him down in silence, and his look
Resumed the calmness which before forsook :
The feast was usher'd in- but sumptuous fare
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there.
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast,
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast.

What ails thee, Dervise? eat-dost thou suppose
This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes?
Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge,
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge,
Makes ev'n contending tribes in peace unite,
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight!"

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Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray!
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume,
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom,
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite,
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight.
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow
Of flames on high, and torches from below;
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell.
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell!
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves;
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry,
They seize that Dervise! — seize on Zatanai ! ?
He saw their terror-check'd the first despair
That urged him but to stand and perish there,
Since far too early and too well obey'd,
The flame was kindled ere the signal made;
He saw their terror from his baldric drew
His bugle brief the blast- but shrilly blew ;
"Tis answer'd "Well ye speed, my gallant crew!
Why did I doubt their quickness of career?
And deem design had left me single here?"
Sweeps his long arm that sabre's whirling sway
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay;
Completes his fury what their fear begun,
And makes the many basely quail to one.
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread,
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head:
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, sur-

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The sword aside in vain — the blood o'erflows!
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life,
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife.
They shout to find him grim and lonely there,
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair!
But short their greeting- shorter his reply
""Tis well but Seyd escapes-and he must die
Much hath been done - but more remains to do
Their galleys blaze- - why not their city too ?"

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V.

Quick at the word they seized him each a torch,
And fire the dome from minaret to porch.
A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye,
But sudden sunk- for on his ear the cry
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell
Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell.
"Oh! burst the Haram
wrong rot on your lives
One female form-remember- we have wives.
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay;
Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay :
But still we spared -must spare the weaker prey.

See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. "The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the field." H

Oh! I forgot

but Heaven will not forgive
If at my word the helpless cease to live;
Follow who will I go we yet have time
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime."
He climbs the crackling stair he bursts the door,
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor;
His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke,
But still from room to room his way he broke.
They search-they find-they save: with lusty arms
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms;
Calm their loud fears; sustain their sinking frames
With all the care defenceless beauty claims:

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood,
And check the very hands with gore imbrued.
But who is she? whom Conrad's arms convey
From reeking pile and combat's wreck away —
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed?

The Haram queen but still the slave of Seyd!

VI.

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare, 1
Few words to re-assure the trembling fair;
For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war,
The foe before retiring, fast and far,
With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued,
First slowlier fled - then rallied -then withstood.
This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few,
Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew,
And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise.
Alla il Alla! Vengeance swells the cry-
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die!
And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell,
The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well-
When wrath returns to renovated strife,
And those who fought for conquest strike for life.
Conrad beheld the danger he beheld

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But first, ere came the rallying host to blows,
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose,
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed,
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed,
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd,
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd:
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare,
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair,
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy

That smooth'd his accents; soften'd in his eye:
"Twas strange - that robber thus with gore bedew'd
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood.
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave;

Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the flower of the pomegranate.

The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright,

As if his homage were a woman's right.

"The wish is wrong-nay, worse for female — vain:
Yet much I long to view that chief again;
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot,
The life -my loving lord remember'd not!"

VIII.

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread,*
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead;
Far from his band, and battling with a host
That deem right dearly won the field he lost,
Fell'd bleeding -- baffled of the death he sought,
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought;
Preserved to linger and to live in vain,
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain,
And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again
But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye
Would doom him ever dying ne'er to die!
Can this be he? triumphant late she saw,
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law !
'Tis he indeed disarm'd but undeprest,
His sole regret the life he still possest;
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will,
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could
kill.

Oh were there none, of all the many given,

To send his soul he scarcely ask'd to heaven?
Must he alone of all retain his breath,

Who more than all had striven and struck for death?
He deeply felt what mortal hearts must feel,
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel,
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt-
He deeply, darkly felt; but evil pride
That led to perpetrate -
- now serves to hide.
Still in his stern and self-collected mien
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen,
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound,
But few that saw-so calmly gazed around:
Though the far shouting of the distant crowd,
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud,
The better warriors who beheld him near,
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear;
And the grim guards that to his durance led,
In silence eyed him with a secret dread.

IX.

The Leech was sent but not in mercy - there,
To note how much the life yet left could bear;
He found enough to load with heaviest chain,
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain;
To-morrow-yea- to-morrow's evening sun
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun,
And rising with the wonted blush of morn
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne.
Of torments this the longest and the worst,
Which adds all other agony to thirst,
That day by day death still forbears to slake,
While famish'd vultures flit around the stake.
"Oh! water-water!"— smiling Hate denies
The victim's prayer-
for if he drinks he dies.
This was his doom: -the Leech, the guard were

gone,

And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone.

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X.

Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew-
It even were doubtful if their victim knew.
There is a war, a chaos of the mind,

Then all its elements convulsed- combined
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse-

That juggling fiend who never spake before -
But cries "I warn'd thee!" when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe-rebel- the weak alone repent!
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all-all that self reveals,
No single passion, and no ruling thought
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought;
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews,
All rushing through their thousand avenues.
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret,
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset;

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate

Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess of hell or heaven;
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern reflection each a crime;
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd,
Not cankering less because the more conceal'd-
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre - the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul and break.
Ay-Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all,-
All-all- before - beyond the deadliest fall.
Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays,
The only hypocrite deserving praise:

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies;
But he who looks on death- and silent dies.
So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career,

He half-way meets him should he menace near !

XI.

In the high chamber of his highest tower
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power.
His palace perish'd in the flame - this fort
Contain'd at once his captive and his court.
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame,
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same:
Alone he sate-in solitude had scann'd
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd:
One thought alone he could not-dared not meet-
"Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?
Then-only then his clanking hands he raised,
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed;
But soon he found or feign'd—or dream'd relief,
And siniled in self-derision of his grief,

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Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain,
And once unclosed — but once may close again.
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair,
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair;
With shape of fairy lightness - naked foot,
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute-
Through guards and dunnest night how came it there?
Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare?
Whom youth and pity lead like thec, 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.

XIII.

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't is 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 shows wond'rous 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.'

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"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 1 echoes with their jest!
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.

XIV.

"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
The last I left in youth-he leaves me now-
And Man but works his will to lay me low.

[God!

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 as fair."

"Thou lov'st another then?-but what to me
Is this 't is 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!'

1 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

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 't will but bring disgust;
I am his slave-but, in despite of pride,

'T were 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! 't is 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:
"T will cost me dear 1 but dread no death to-day!"

XV.

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!

XVI.

'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!

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.

The Corsair.

CANTO THE THIRD.

Come vedi-ancor non m' abbandona."-DANTE.

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!

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 2 latest day!
Not yet-not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
Bat 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 Phobus 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!

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 3
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moon-bears play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And, bright around with quivering beams besct,
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, +

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. [See post, "Curse of Minerva "]

1 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.

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

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. 5

II.

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!

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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
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!
It came at last - a sad and shatter'd boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding-all most wretched. these the few-
Scarce knew they how escaped. this all they knew.
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait
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.

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She saw at once, yet sunk not-trembled not Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,

of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. -Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.

[Of the brilliant skies and variegated landscapes of Greece every one has formed to himself a general notion, from having contemplated them through the hazy atmosphere of some prose narration; but, in Lord Byron's poetry, every image is distinct and glowing, as if it were illuminated by its native sunshine; and, in the figures which people the landscape, we behold not only the general form and costume, but the countenance, and the attitude, and the play of features and of gesture accompanying, and indicating, the sudden impulses of momentary feelings. The magic of colouring by which this is effected is, perhaps, the most striking evidence of Lord Byron's talent.- GEORGE ELLIS.]

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