Part III. chap, x., and the "billet," see _Letters,_ ii. 354, note 1)

... "She has been pleased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in the

note annexed to _The Bride_."]

{A} _In this line I have not drawn from fiction but memory--that mirror

of regret memory--the too faithful mirror of affliction the long vista

through which we gaze. Someone has said that the perfection of

Architecture is frozen music--the perfection of Beauty to my mind always

presented the idea of living Music_.--[MS. erased.]

[134] {166} Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal

landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those who, by a kind of

feudal tenure, possess land on condition of service, are called

Timariots: they serve as Spahis, according to the extent of territory,

and bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry.

[The "line of Carasman" dates back to Kara Youlouk, the founder of the

dynasty of the "White Sheep," at the close of the fourteenth century.

Hammer-Purgstall (_Hist. de l'Emp. Ottoman_, iii. 151) gives _sang-sue_,

"blood-sucker," as the equivalent of Youlouk, which should, however, be

interpreted "smooth-face." Of the Magnesian Kara Osman Oglou ("Black

Osman-son"), Dallaway (_Constantinople Ancient and Modern_, 1797, p.

190) writes, "He is the most powerful and opulent derè bey ('lord of the

valley'), or feudal tenant, in the empire, and, though inferior to the

pashas in rank, possesses more wealth and influence, and offers them an

example of administration and patriotic government which they have

rarely the virtue to follow." For the Timariots, who formed the third

class of the feudal cavalry of the Ottoman Empire, see Finlay's _Greece

under Othoman ... Domination_, 1856, pp. 50, 51.]

[fn] _Who won of yore paternal lands_.--[MS.]

[fo] _Enough if that thy bridesman true_.--[MS. erased.]

[135] [The Bey Oglou (Begz[=a]de) is "the nobleman," "the high-born

chief."]

[136] {167} When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single

messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his death, is

strangled instead, and sometimes five or six, one after the other, on

the same errand, by command of the refractory patient; if, on the

contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the Sultan's respectable

signature, and is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, several of

these presents were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate; among

others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young man, cut off by

treachery, after a desperate resistance.

[137] Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate a

superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no bells.

[138] "Chibouque," the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouthpiece, and

sometimes the ball which contains the leaf, is adorned with precious

stones, if in possession of the wealthier orders.

[139] {168} "Maugrabee" [_Maghrab[=i]_, Moors], Moorish mercenaries.

[140] "Delis," bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, and

always begin the action. [See _Childe Harold_, Canto II., _Poetical

Works_, 1899, ii. 149, note 1.]

[141] [The Kizlar aghasi was the head of the black eunuchs; kislar, by

itself, is Turkish for "girls," "virgins."]

[142] A twisted fold of _felt_ is used for scimitar practice by the

Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a single stroke:

sometimes a tough turban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed

[jar[=i]d] is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful.

[143] "Ollahs," Alla il Allah [La il[=a]h ill 'll[=a]h], the "Leilies,"

as the Spanish poets call them, the sound is Ollah: a cry of which the

Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during

the jerreed [jar[=i]d], or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Their

animation in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and

comboloios [_vide post_, p. 181, note 4], form an amusing contrast.

[fp] {169} _Her heart confessed no cause of shame_.--[MS.]

[144] "Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest.

[145] The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mussulman

apartments are generally painted, in great houses, with one eternal and

highly-coloured view of Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is

a noble contempt of perspective; below, arms, scimitars, etc., are, in

general, fancifully and not inelegantly disposed.

[fq]

_The drops that flow upon his vest_

_Unheeded fell upon his breast_.--[MS.]

[146] {170} It has been much doubted whether the notes of this "Lover of

the rose" are sad or merry; and Mr. Fox's remarks on the subject have

provoked some learned controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on

the subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, though a

little inclined to the "errare mallem," etc., _if_ Mr. Fox _was_

mistaken.

[Fox, writing to Grey (see Lord Holland's Preface (p. xii.) to the

_History ... of James the Second_, by ... C. J. Fox, London, 1808),

remarks, "In defence of my opinion about the nightingale, I find

Chaucer, who of all poets seems to have been the fondest of the singing

of birds, calls it a 'merry note,'" etc. Fox's contention was attacked

and disproved by Martin Davy (1763-1839, physician and Master of Caius

College, Cambridge), in an interesting and scholarly pamphlet entitled,

_Observations upon Mr. Fox's Letter to Mr. Grey_, 1809.]

[fr]

_Would I had never seen this hour_

_What knowest thou not who loves thee best._--[MS.]

[fs] {171} _If so by Mecca's hidden shrine_.--[MS.]

[ft] _The day that teareth thee from me_.--[MS.]

[147] "Azrael," the angel of death.

[fu] _When comes that hour and come it must_.--[MS. erased.]

[fv] {172}

_Which thanks to terror and the dark_

_Hath missed a trifle of its mark._--[MS.]

[The couplet was expunged in a revise dated November 19.]

[fw] _With life to keep but not with life resign_.--[MS.]

[fx] {173}

_That strays along that head so fair._--[MS.]

or, _That strays along that neck so fair._--[MS.]

[148] The treasures of the Pre-Adamite Sultans. See D'Herbelot [1781,

ii. 405], article _Istakar_ [Estekhar _ou_ Istekhar].

[149] "Musselim," a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha; a Waywode

is the third; and then come the Agas.

[This table of precedence applies to Ottoman officials in Greece and

other dependencies. The Musselim [Mutaselline] is the governor or

commander of a city (e.g. Hobhouse, _Travels in Albania_, ii. 41, speaks

of the "Musselim of Smyrna"); Aghas, i.e. heads of departments in the

army or civil service, or the Sultan's household, here denote mayors of

small towns, or local magnates.]

[150] "Egripo," the Negropont. According to the proverb, the Turks of

Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of

their respective races.

[See Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_, 1855, viii. 386.]

[fy] _Like this--and more than this._--[MS.]

[fz] {175}

_But--Selim why my heart's reply_

_Should need so much of mystery_

_Is more than I can guess or tell,_

_But since thou say'st 'tis so--'tis well_.--[MS.]

[The fourth line erased.]

[ga]

_He blest me more in leaving thee._

_Much should I suffer thus compelled_.--[MS.]

[gb] {176}

_This vow I should no more conceal_

_And wherefore should I not reveal?_--[MS.]

[gc]

_My breast is consciousness of sin_

_But when and where and what the crime_

_I almost feel is lurking here_.--[MS.]

[151] "Tchocadar"--one of the attendants who precedes a man of

authority.

[See D'Ohsson's _Tableau Générale, etc._, 1787, ii. 159, and _Plates_

87, 88. The Turks seem to have used the Persian word _chawki-d[=a]r_, an

officer of the guard-house, a policeman (whence our slang word

"chokey"), for a "valet de pied," or, in the case of the Sultan, for an

apparitor. The French spelling points to D'Ohsson as Byron's authority.]

[gd] {177} _Be silent thou_.--[MS.]

[ge] {178} _Nov_. 9^th^ 1813.--[MS.]

[152] [_Vide_ Ovid, _Heroïdes,_ Ep. xix.; and the _De Herone atque

Leandro_ of Musæus.]

[153] {179} The wrangling about this epithet, "the broad Hellespont" or

the "boundless Hellespont," whether it means one or the other, or what

it means at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. I have even

heard it disputed on the spot; and not foreseeing a speedy conclusion to

the controversy, amused myself with swimming across it in the mean time;

and probably may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the

question as to the truth of "the tale of Troy divine" still continues,

much of it resting upon the talismanic word[Greek: "a)/peiros:"]

probably Homer had the same notion of distance that a coquette has of

time; and when he talks of boundless, means half a mile; as the latter,

by a like figure, when she says _eternal_ attachment, simply specifies

three weeks.

[For a defence of the Homeric[Greek: a)pei/rôn,] and for a _résumé_ of

the "wrangling" of the topographers, Jean Baptiste Le Chevalier

(1752-1836) and Jacob Bryant (1715-1804), etc., see _Travels in

Albania,_ 1858, ii. 179-185.]

[154] {180} Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with

laurel, etc. He was afterwards imitated by Caracalla in his race. It is

believed that the last also poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the

sake of new Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on the tombs

of Æyietes and Antilochus: the first is in the centre of the plain.

[Alexander placed a garland on the tomb of Achilles, and "went through

the ceremony of anointing himself with oil, and running naked up to

it."--Plut. _Vitæ_, "Alexander M.," cap. xv. line 25, Lipsiæ, 1814, vi.

187. For the tombs of Æsyetes, etc., see _Travels in Albania, ii.

149-151._]

[155] [Compare--

"Or narrow if needs must be,

Outside are the storms and the strangers."

_Never the Time, etc.,_ lines 19, 20, by Robert Browning.]

[156] {181} When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, which is

slight, but _not_ disagreeable. [Letter to Murray, December 6, 1813,

_Letters_, 1898, ii. 300.]

[157] ["Coeterum castitatis hieroglyphicum gemma est."--Hoffmann,

_Lexic. Univ._, art. "Smaragdus." Compare, too, _Lalla Rookh_ ("Chandos

Classics," p. 406), "The emerald's virgin blaze."]

[158] The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or enclosed in gold boxes,

containing scraps from the Koran, worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is

still universal in the East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second

cap. of the Koran describes the attributes of the Most High, and is

engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed and

sublime of all sentences.

[The _âyatu 'l kursîy_, or verse of the throne (Sura II. "Chapter of the

Heifer," v. 257), runs thus: "God, there is no God but He, the living

and self-subsistent. Slumber takes Him not, nor sleep. His is what is in

the heavens and what is in the earth. Who is it that intercedes with

Him, save by His permission? He knows what is before them, and what

behind them, and they comprehend not aught of His knowledge but of what

He pleases. His throne extends over the heavens and the earth, and it

tires Him not to guard them both, for He is high and grand."--The

_Qur'ân_, translated by E. H. Palmer, 1880, Part I., _Sacred Books of

the East_, vi. 40.]

[159] "Comboloio"--a Turkish rosary. The MSS., particularly those of the

Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The Greek females are kept

in utter ignorance; but many of the Turkish girls are highly

accomplished, though not actually qualified for a Christian coterie.

Perhaps some of our own _"blues"_ might not be the worse for

_bleaching._

[The comboloio consists of ninety-nine beads. Compare _Lalla Rookh_

("Chandos Classics," p. 420), "Her ruby rosary," etc., and note on "Le

Tespih." _Lord Byron's Comboloio_ is the title of a metrical _jeu

d'esprit,_ a rhymed catalogue of the _Poetical Works,_ beginning with

_Hours of Idleness,_ and ending with _Cain, a Mystery_.--_Blackwood's

Magazine,_ 1822, xi. 162-165.]

[160] {182} [Shiraz, capital of the Persian province of Fars, is

celebrated for the attar-gûl, or attar of roses.]

[gf] {183}

_Her Prophet did not clearly show_

_But Selim's place was quite secure_.--[MS.]

[161] [Compare _The Giaour_, line 490, note 1, _vide ante_, p. 110.]

[gg] _And one seemed red with recent guilt_.--[MS.]

[gh] {184} _Her Selim--"Alla--is it he?"_--[MS.]

[162] "Galiongée" or Galiongi [i.e. a Galleon-er], a sailor, that is, a

Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. Their

dress is picturesque; and I have seen the Capitan Pacha, more than once,

wearing it as a kind of _incog_. Their legs, however, are generally

naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with silver

are those of an Arnaut robber, who was my host (he had quitted the

profession) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the Morea; they were plated

in scales one over the other, like the back of an armadillo.

[Gastuni lies some eight miles S.W. of Palæopolis, the site of the

ancient Elis. The "Pyrgo" must be the Castle of Chlemutzi (Castel

Tornese), built by Geoffrey II. of Villehouardin, circ. A.D. 1218.]

[gi] {185}

_What--have I lived to curse the day?_--[MS. M.]

_To curse--if I could curse--the day_.--[MS., ed. 1892.]

[gj] {186} _I swear it by Medina's shrine_.--[MS. erased.]

[163] The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain sometimes the name

of the place of their manufacture, but more generally a text from the

Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst those in my possession is one with a

blade of singular construction: it is very broad, and the edge notched

into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering of

flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what possible use such a figure

could add: he said, in Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussulmans

had an idea that those of this form gave a severer wound; and liked it

because it was "piu feroce." I did not much admire the reason, but

bought it for its peculiarity.

[Compare _Lalla Rookh_ ("Chandos Classics," p. 373)--"The flashing of

their swords' rich marquetry."]

[164] {187} It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or

personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Cain, is equally the

privilege of Mussulman and Jew: indeed, the former profess to be much

better acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs,

than is warranted by our own sacred writ; and not content with Adam,

they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all

necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet.

Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar's wife; and her amour with

Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their language. It is,

therefore, no violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah,

into the mouth of a Moslem.

[_À propos_ of this note "for the ignorant," Byron writes to Murray

(November 13, 1813), "Do you suppose that no one but the Galileans are

acquainted with Adam, and Eve, and Cain, and Noah?--_Zuleika_ is the

Persian _poetical name_ for Potiphar's wife;" and, again, November 14,

"I don't care one lump of sugar for my _poetry;_ but for my _costume_,

and my correctness on these points ... I will combat

lustily."--_Letters_, 1898, ii. 282, 283.]

[165] {188} [Karaji['c] (Vuk Stefanovi['c], born 1787), secretary to Kara

George, published _Narodne Srpske Pjesme_, at Vienna, 1814, 1815. See,

too, _Languages and Literature of the Slavic Nations_, by Talvi, New

York, 1850, pp. 366-382; _Volkslieder der Serben_, von Talvi, Leipzig,

1835, ii. 245, etc., and _Chants Populaires des Servics_, Recueillis par

Wuk Stephanowitsch, et Traduits d'après Talvy, par Madame Élise Voïart,

Paris, 1834, ii. 183, etc.]

[166] Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widdin; who, for the last years of his

life, set the whole power of the Porte at defiance.

[Passwan Oglou (1758-1807) [Passewend's, or the Watchman's son,

according to Hobhouse] was born and died at Widdin. He first came into

notice in 1788, in alliance with certain disbanded Turkish levies, named

_Krdschalies_. "It was their pride to ride along on stately horses, with

trappings of gold and silver, and bearing costly arms. In their train

were female slaves, Giuvendi, in male attire, who not only served to

amuse them in their hours of ease with singing and dancing, but also

followed them to battle (as Kaled followed Lara, see _Lara_, Canto II.

stanza xv., etc.), for the purpose of holding their horses when they

fought." On one occasion he is reported to have addressed these "rebel

hordes" much in the spirit of the "Corsair," "The booty be yours, and

mine the glory." "After having for some time suffered a Pacha to be

associated with him, he at length expelled his superior, and demanded

'the three horse-tails' for himself." In 1798 the Porte despatched

another army, but Passwan was completely victorious, and "at length the

Porte resolved to make peace, and actually sent him the 'three

horse-tails'" (i.e. made him commander-in-chief of the Janissaries at

Widdin). (See _History of Servia_, by Leopold von Ranke, Bohn, 1853, pp.

68-71. See, too, _Voyage dans l'Empire Othoman_, par G. A. Olivier, an.

9 (1801), i. 108-125; and Madame Voïart's "Abrégé de l'histoire du

royaume de Servie," prefixed to _Chants Populaires, etc._, Paris,

1834.)]

[gk]

_And how that death made known to me_

_Hath made me what thou now shalt see._--[MS.]

[167] {189} "Horse-tail,"--the standard of a Pacha.

[gl] _With venom blacker than his soul_.--[MS.]

[168] Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure which,

was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, in the manner described in

the text. Ali Pacha, while I was in the country, married the daughter of

his victim, some years after the event had taken place at a bath in

Sophia or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, which

is presented before the sherbet by the bath keeper, after dressing.

[gm] {190}

_Nor, if his sullen spirit could,_

_Can I forgive a parent's blood_.--[MS.]

[gn] {191} _Yet I must be all truth to thee_.--[MS.]

[go] {192}

_To Haroun's care in idlesse left,_

_In spirit bound, of fame bereft_.--[MS. erased.]

[gp] {193}

_That slave who saw my spirit pining_

_Beneath Inaction's heavy yoke,_

_Compassionate his charge resigning_.--[MS.]

[gq]

_Oh could my tongue to thee impart_

_That liberation of my heart_.--[MS. erased.]

[169] I must here shelter myself with the Psalmist--is it not David that

makes the "Earth reel to and fro like a Drunkard"? If the Globe can be

thus lively on seeing its Creator, a liberated captive can hardly feel

less on a first view of his work.--[Note, MS. erased.]

[170] The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined to the

Archipelago, the sea alluded to.

[171] {194} Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts, in 1789-90,

for the independence of his country. Abandoned by the Russians, he

became a pirate, and the Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises.

He is said to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Riga are the two

most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists.

[For Lambros Katzones (Hobhouse, _Travels in Albania_, ii. 5, calls him

Canziani), see Finlay's _Greece under Othoman ... Domination,_ 1856, pp.

330-334. Finlay dwells on his piracies rather than his patriotism.]

[172] {195} "Rayahs,"--all who pay the capitation tax, called the

"Haratch."

["This tax was levied on the whole male unbelieving population," except

children under ten, old men, Christian and Jewish priests.--Finlay,

_Greece under Ottoman ... Domination_, 1856, p. 26. See, too, the

_Qur'ân_, cap. ix., "The Declaration of Immunity."]

[173] This first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussulmans

profess much acquaintance.

[174] The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans, will be

found well detailed in any book of Eastern travels. That it possesses a

charm peculiar to itself, cannot be denied. A young French renegado

confessed to Châteaubriand, that he never found himself alone, galloping

in the desert, without a sensation approaching to rapture which was

indescribable.

[175] [Inns, caravanserais. From _sar[=a]y_, a palace or inn.]

[176] [The remaining seventy lines of stanza xx. were not included in

the original MS., but were sent to the publisher in successive

instalments while the poem was passing through the press.]

[177] [In the first draft of a supplementary fragment, line 883 ran

thus--

/ _a fancied_ \

_"and tints tomorrow with_ { } _ray_."

\ _an airy_ /

A note was appended--

"Mr. M^y.^ Choose which of the 2 epithets 'fancied' or 'airy' may

be best--or if neither will do--tell me and I will dream another--

"Yours,

"B^n^"

The epithet ("prophetic") which stands in the text was inserted in a

revise dated December 3, 1813. Two other versions were also sent, that

Gifford might select that which was "best, or rather _not worst_"--

/ _gilds_ \

"_And_ { } _the hope of morning with its ray_."

\ _tints_ /

"_And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray_."

(_Letters_, 1898, ii. 282.)

On the same date, December 3rd, two additional lines were affixed to the

quatrain (lines 886-889)--

_"Soft as the Mecca Muezzin's strains invite_

_Him who hath journeyed far to join the rite."_

And in a later revise, as "a last alteration"--

_"Blest as the call which from Medina's dome_

_Invites devotion to her Prophet's tomb."_

An erased version of this "last alteration" ran thus--

_"Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's dome_

_Which welcomes Faith to view her Prophet's tomb_."{A}

{A} [It is probable that Byron, who did not trouble himself to

distinguish between "lie" and "lay," and who, as the MS. of _English

Bards, and Scotch Reviewers_ (see line 732, _Poetical Works_, 1898, i.

355) reveals, pronounced "petit maître" _anglicé_ in four syllables,

regarded "dome" (_vide supra_) as a true and exact rhyme to "tomb," but,

with his wonted compliance, was persuaded to make yet another

alteration.] ]

[gr] {196} Of lines 886-889, two, if not three, variants were sent to

the publisher--

(1) _Dear as the Melody of better days_

_That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise_--

_Sweet as his native song to Exile's ears_

_Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears_.--

[December 2, 1813.]

(2) /_Dear_\ /_better_ \

{ } _as the melody of_ { } _days_

\_Soft_/ \_youthful_/

/ _a silent_ \

_That steals_ { } _tear of speechless praise_--

\_the trembling_/

[178] {197} "Jannat-al-Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman

paradise. [See Sale's _Koran_, "Preliminary Discourse," sect. i.; and

_Journal_, November 17, 1813, _Letters_, 1898, ii. 326.]

[gs] _Wait on thy voice and bow at thy command_.--[MS.]

[gt]

_Oh turn and mingle every thought with his,_

_And all our future days unite in this_.--[MS.]

[179] ["You wanted some reflections, and I send you _per Selim_,

eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not an _ethical_

tendency.... Mr. Canning's approbation (_if_ he did approve) I need not

say makes me proud."--Letter to Murray, November 23, 1813, _Letters_,

1898, ii. 286.]

[gu]

_Man I may lead but trust not--I may fall_

_By those now friends to me, yet foes to all_--

_In this they follow but the bent assigned_,

_By fatal Nature to our warring kind_.--[MS.]

[gv] {198}

_Behold a wilderness and call it peace_,--[MS. erased.]

_Look round our earth and lo! where battles cease_,

_"Behold a Solitude and call it" peace_.--[MS.]

or,

_Mark even where Conquest's deeds of carnage cease_

_She leaves a solitude and calls it peace_.--[November 21, 1813].

[For the final alteration to the present text, see letter to Murray of

November 24, 1813.]

[180] [Compare Tacitus, _Agricola_, cap. 30--

"Solitudinem faciun--pacem appellant."

See letter to Murray, November 24, 1813, _Letters_, 1898, ii. 287.]

[gw] _Power sways but by distrust--her sole source_.--[MS. erased.]

[gx] _Which Love to-night hath lent by swelling sail_.--[MS.]

[181] {199} [Compare--

"Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem,

Et dominam tenero detinuisse sinu."

Tibullus, _Eleg_., Lib. I. i. 45, 46.]

[gy] _Then if my lip once murmurs, it must be_.--[MS.]

[182] [The omission of lines 938, 939 drew from Byron an admission

(Letter to Murray, November 29, 1813) that "the passage is an imitation

altogether from Medea in Ovid" (_Metamorph_., vii. 66-69)--

"My love possest, in Jason's bosom laid,

Let seas swell high;--I cannot be dismay'd

While I infold my husband in my arms:

Or should I fear, I should but fear his harms."

Englished by Sandys, 1632.]

[gz] _This hour decides my doom or thy escape_.--[MS.]

[183] {200} [Compare--

"That thought has more of hell than had the former.

Another, and another, and another!"

_The Revenge_, by Edward Young, act iv.

(_Modern British Drama_, 1811, ii. 17).]

[ha] {202} _Or grazed by wounds he scorned to feel_.--[MS.]

[hb] {203} Three MS. variants of these lines were rejected in turn

before the text was finally adopted--

(1) {_Ah! wherefore did he turn to look_

{_I know not why he turned to look_

_Since fatal was the gaze he took?_

_So far escaped from death or chain_,

_To search for her and search in vain:_

_Sad proof in peril and in pain_

_How late will Lover's hope remain._

(2) _Thus far escaped from death or chain_

_Ah! wherefore did he turn to look?_

_For her his eye must seek in vain,_

_Since fatal was the gaze he took._

_Sad proof, etc_.--

(3) _Ah! wherefore did he turn to look_

_So far escaped from death or chain?_

_Since fatal was the gaze he took_

_For her his eye but sought in vain,_

_Sad proof, etc_.--

A fourth variant of lines 1046, 1047 was inserted in a revise dated

November 16--

_That glance he paused to send again_

_To her for whom he dies in vain_.

[hc] {204} _O'er which their talons yet delay_.--[MS. erased.]

[hd] {205}

_And that changed hand whose only life_

_Is motion-seems to menace strife_.--[MS.]

[184] ["While the _Salsette_ lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron saw the

body of a man who had been executed by being cast into the sea, floating

on the stream, moving to and fro with the tumbling of the water, which

gave to his arms the effect of scaring away several sea-fowl that were

hovering to devour. This incident he has strikingly depicted in the

_Bride of Abydos."--Life of Lord Byron_, by John Galt, 1830, p. 144.]

[185] A turban is carved in stone above the graves of _men_ only.

[186] The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent slaves" are the

men, whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in _public_.

[he] {206} _The Koran-chapter chaunts thy fate_.--[MS.]

[187] [At a Turkish funeral, after the interment has taken place, the

Imâm "assis sur les genoux à côté de la tombe," offers the prayer

_Telkin_, and at the conclusion of the prayer recites the _Fathah_, or

"opening chapter" of the Korân. ("In the name of the merciful and

compassionate God. Praise belongs to God, the Lord of the worlds, the

Merciful, the Compassionate, the Ruler of the day of judgment. Thee we

serve, and Thee we ask for aid. Guide us in the right path, the path of

those Thou art gracious to; not of those Thou art wroth with; nor of

those who err."--_The Qur'ân_, p. 1, translated by E. H. Palmer, Oxford,

1880): _Tableau Générale de l'Empire Ottoman_, par Mouradja D'Ohsson,

Paris, 1787, i. 235-248. Writing to Murray, November 14, 1813, Byron

instances the funeral (in the _Bride of Abydos_) as proof of his

correctness with regard to local colouring.--_Letters_, 1898, ii. 283.]

[188] {207} ["I one evening witnessed a funeral in the vast cemetery of

Scutari. An old man, with a venerable beard, threw himself by the side

of the narrow grave, and strewing the earth on his head, cried aloud,

'He was my son! my only son!'"--_Constantinople in 1828_, by Charles

Macfarlane, 1829, p. 233, note.]

[hf] _She whom thy Sultan had been fain to wed_.--[MS.]

[189] ["The body of a Moslemin is ordered to be carried to the grave in

haste, with hurried steps."--_Ibid._, p. 233, note.]

[190] "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, 'The friends of my

Youth, where are they?' and an Echo answered, 'Where are they?'"--_From

an Arabic MS._ The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is

taken) must be already familiar to every reader: it is given in the

second annotation, p. 67, of _The Pleasures of Memory_ [note to Part I.

line 103]; a poem so well known as to render a reference almost

superfluous: but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur [_Poems_,

by Samuel Rogers, 1852, i. 48].

[hg] _There the sad cypress ever glooms_.--[MS.]

[hh] {209} _But with the day blush of the sky_.--[MS.]

[hi] _And some there be who could believe_.--[MS.]

[191]

"And airy tongues that _syllable_ men's names."

Milton, _Comus_, line 208.

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we

need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of

the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape

of a raven (see _Orford's Reminiscences, Lord Orford's Works_, 1798, iv.

283), and many other instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The

most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her

daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished

her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; and as she was

rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was

made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see _Orford's Letters_.

["But here (at Gloucester) is a _modernity_, which beats all antiquities

for curiosity. Just by the high altar is a small pew hung with green

damask, with curtains of the same; a small corner-cupboard, painted,

carved, and gilt, for books, in one corner, and two troughs of a

bird-cage, with seeds and water. If any mayoress on earth was small

enough to inclose herself in this tabernacle, or abstemious enough to

feed on rape and canary, I should have sworn that it was the shrine of

the queen of the aldermen. It belongs to a Mrs. Cotton, who, having lost

a favourite daughter, is convinced her soul is transmigrated into a

robin redbreast, for which reason she passes her life in making an

aviary of the cathedral of Gloucester."--Letter to Richard Bentley,

September, 1753 (_Lord Orford's Works_, 1798, v. 279).]

[192] {210} [According to J. B. Le Chevalier (_Voyage de La Propontide,

etc._, an. viii. (1800), p. 17), the Turkish name for a small bay which

formed the ancient port of Sestos, is _Ak-Bachi-Liman_ (Port de la Tête

blanche).]

[hj]

_And in its stead that mourning flower_

_Hath flourished--flourisheth this hour,_

_Alone and coldly pure and pale_

_As the young cheek that saddens to the tale_.

_And withers not, though branch and leaf_

_Are stamped with an eternal grief_.--[MS.]

An earlier version of the final text reads--

_As weeping Childhood's cheek at Sorrow's tale!_

[193] ["_The Bride_, such as it is is my first _entire_ composition of

any length (except the Satire, and be damned to it), for _The Giaour_ is

but a string of passages, and _Childe Harold_ is, and I rather think

always will be, unconcluded" (Letter to Murray, November 29, 1813). It

(the _Bride_) "was published on Thursday the second of December; but how

it is liked or disliked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not is no

fault of the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But I am much

more indebted to the tale than I can ever be to the most partial reader;

as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination--from selfish

regrets to vivid recollections--and recalled me to a country replete

with the _brightest_ and _darkest_, but always most _lively_ colours of

my memory" (_Journal_, December 5, 1813, _Letters_, 1898, ii. 291,

361).]

THE CORSAIR:

A TALE.

----"I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno."

Tasso, _Gerusalemme Liberata_, Canto X. [stanza lxxviii. line 8].

INTRODUCTION TO _THE CORSAIR_.

A seventh edition of the _Giaour_, including the final additions, and

the first edition of the _Bride of Abydos_, were published on the

twenty-ninth of November, 1813. In less than three weeks (December 18)

Byron began the _Corsair_, and completed the fair copy of the first

draft by the last day of the year. The _Corsair_ in all but its final

shape, together with the sixth edition of the _Bride of Abydos_, the

seventh of _Childe Harold_, and the ninth of the _Giaour_, was issued on

the first of February, 1814.

A letter from John Murray to Lord Byron, dated February 3, 1814 (_Memoir

of John Murray_, 1891, i. 223), presents a vivid picture of a great

literary triumph--

"My Lord,--I have been unwilling to write until I had something to

say.... I am most happy to tell you that your last poem _is_--what

Mr. Southey's is _called_--a _Carmen Triumphale_. Never in my

recollection has any work ... excited such a ferment ... I sold on

the day of publication--a thing perfectly unprecedented--10,000

copies.... Mr. Moore says it is masterly--a wonderful performance.

Mr. Hammond, Mr. Heber, D'Israeli, every one who comes ... declare

their unlimited approbation. Mr. Ward was here with Mr. Gifford

yesterday, and mingled his admiration with the rest ... and Gifford

did, what I never knew him do before--he repeated several stanzas

from memory, particularly the closing stanza--

"'His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known.'

"I have the highest encomiums in letters from Croker and Mr. Hay;

but I rest most upon the warm feeling it has created in Gifford's

critic heart.... You have no notion of the sensation which the

publication has occasioned; and my only regret is that you were not

present to witness it."

For some time before and after the poem appeared, Byron was, as he told

Leigh Hunt (February 9, 1814; _Letters_, 1899, iii. 27), "snow-bound and

thaw-swamped in 'the valley of the shadow' of Newstead Abbey," and it

was not till he had returned to town that he resumed his journal, and

bethought him of placing on record some dark sayings with regard to the

story of the _Corsair_ and the personality of Conrad. Under date

February 18, 1814, he writes--

"The _Corsair_ has been conceived, written, published, etc., since

I last took up this journal [?last day but one]. They tell me it

has great success; it was written _con amore_ [i.e. during the

reign of Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster], and much from

_existence_."

And again, _Journal_, March 10 (_Letters_, 1898, ii. 399),

"He [Hobhouse] told me an odd report,--that _I_ am the actual

Conrad, the veritable Corsair, and that part of my travels are

supposed to have passed in privacy [_sic;_?piracy]. Um! people

sometimes hit near the truth; but never the whole truth. H. don't

know what I was about the year after he left the Levant; nor does

any one--nor--nor--nor--however, it is a lie--but, 'I doubt the

equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth.'"

Very little weight can be attached to these "I could an I would"

pronouncements, deliberately framed to provoke curiosity, and destined,

no doubt, sooner or later to see the light; but the fact remains that

Conrad is not a mere presentation of Byron in a fresh disguise, or "The

Pirate's Tale" altogether a "painting of the imagination."

That the _Corsair_ is founded upon fact is argued at some length by the

author (an "English Gentleman in the Greek Military Service") of the

_Life, Writings, Opinions, and Times of the R. H. George Gordon Noel

Byron_, which was published in 1825. The point of the story (i.

197-201), which need not be repeated at length, is that Byron, on

leaving Constantinople and reaching the island of Zea (July, 1810),

visited ["strolled about"] the islands of the Archipelago, in company

with a Venetian gentleman who had turned buccaneer _malgré lui_, and

whose history and adventures, amatory and piratical, prefigured and

inspired the "gestes" of Conrad. The tale must be taken for what it is

worth; but it is to be remarked that it affords a clue to Byron's

mysterious entries in a journal which did not see the light till 1830,

five years after the "English Gentleman" published his volumes of

gossiping anecdote. It may, too, be noted that, although, in his

correspondence of 1810, 1811, there is no mention of any tour among the

"Isles of Greece," in a letter to Moore dated February 2, 1815

(_Letters_, 1899, iii. 176), Byron recalls "the interesting white

squalls and short seas of Archipelago memory."

How far Byron may have drawn on personal experience for his picture of a

pirate _chez lui_, it is impossible to say; but during the year 1809-11,

when he was travelling in Greece, the exploits of Lambros Katzones and

other Greek pirates sailing under the Russian flag must have been within

the remembrance and on the lips of the islanders and the "patriots" of

the mainland. The "Pirate's Island," from which "Ariadne's isle" (line

444) was visible, may be intended for Paros or Anti-Paros.

For the inception of Conrad (see Canto I. stanza ii.), the paradoxical

hero, an assortment rather than an amalgam of incongruous

characteristics, Byron may, perhaps, have been in some measure indebted

to the description of Malefort, junior, in Massinger's _Unnatural

Combat_, act i. sc. 2, line 20, sq.--

"I have sat with him in his cabin a day together,

* * * * *

Sigh he did often, as if inward grief

And melancholy at that instant would

Choke up his vital spirits....

When from the maintop

A sail's descried, all thoughts that do concern

Himself laid by, no lion pinched with hunger

Rouses himself more fiercely from his den,

Then he comes on the deck; and then how wisely

He gives directions," etc.

The _Corsair_, together with the _Bride of Abydos_, was reviewed by

Jeffrey in the _Edinburgh Review_ of April, 1814, vol. xxiii. p. 198;

and together with _Lara_, by George Agar Ellis in the _Quarterly Review_

of July, 1814, vol. ii. p. 428.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ON _THE CORSAIR_.

In comparison with the _Giaour_, the additions made to the _Corsair_

whilst it was passing through the press were inconsiderable. The

original MS., which numbers 1737 lines, is probably the fair copy of a

number of loose sheets which have not been preserved. The erasures are

few and far between, and the variations between the copy and the text

are neither numerous nor important.

In one of the latest revises stanza x. was added to the First Canto. The

last four lines of stanza xi. first appeared in the Seventh Edition.

The Second Canto suffered no alteration except the substitution of lines

1131-1133 for two lines which were expunged.

Larger additions were made to the Third Canto. Lines 1299-1375, or

stanza v. (included in a revise dated January 6, 1814), stanzas xvii.

and xxiii., numbering respectively 77, 32, and 16 lines, and the two

last lines of stanza x., 127 lines in all, represent the difference

between the text as it now stands and the original MS.

In a note to Byron's _Poetical Works_, 1832, ix. 257, it is stated that

the _Corsair_ was begun on the 18th and finished on the 31st of

December, 1813. In the Introduction to the _Corsair_ prefixed to the

Library Edition, the poem is said to have been composed in ten days, "at

the rate of 200 lines a day." The first page of the MS. is dated "27th

of December, 1813," and the last page "December 31, 1813, January 1,

1814." It is probable that the composition of the first draft was begun

on the 18th and finished on the 27th of December, and that the work of

transcription occupied the last five days of the month. Stanza v. of

Canto III. reached the publisher on the 6th, and stanzas xvii. and

xxiii. on the 11th and 12th of January, 1814.

The First Edition amounted to 1859 lines (the numeration, owing to the

inclusion of broken lines, is given as 1863), and falls short of the

existing text by the last four lines of stanza xi. It contains the first

dedication to Moore, and numbers 100 pages. To the Second Edition, which

numbers 108 pages, the following poems were appended:--

_To a Lady Weeping_.

_From the Turkish_.

_Sonnet to Genevra_ ("Thine eyes' blue tenderness," etc.).

_Sonnet to Genevra_ ("Thy cheek is pale with thought," etc.).

_Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog_.

_Farewell_.

These occasional poems were not appended to the Third Edition, which

only numbered 100 pages; but they reappeared in the Fourth and

subsequent editions.

The Seventh Edition contained four additional lines (the last four of

stanza xi.), and a note (unnumbered) to line 226, in defence of the

_vraisemblance_ of the _Corsair's_ misanthropy. The Ninth Edition

numbered 112 pages. The additional matter consists of a long note to the

last line of the poem ("Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes")

on the pirates of Barataria.

Twenty-five thousand copies of the _Corsair_ were sold between January

and March, 1814. An Eighth Edition of fifteen hundred copies was printed

in March, and sold before the end of the year. A Ninth Edition of three

thousand copies was printed in the beginning of 1815.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

My dear Moore,

I dedicate to you the last production with which I shall trespass on

public patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I

feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of

adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle,

and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you

among the firmest of her patriots; while you stand alone the first of

her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the

decree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has

been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but

sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It

will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the

gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of

its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to

your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I

trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose

scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much

justice. The wrongs of your own country,[194] the magnificent and fiery

spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there

be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish

Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel.

Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but

wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part of your national claim

of oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your

title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians.

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be

fluent, and none agreeable?--Self. I have written much, and published

more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but,

for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award

of "Gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have attempted

not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our

language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of

Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I

confess, it is the measure most after my own heart; Scott alone,[195] of

the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal

facility of the octosyllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of

his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our

dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from

the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet

is not the most popular measure certainly; but as I did not deviate

into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I

shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with

that versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing but

compositions whose former circulation is part of my present, and will be

of my future regret.

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad

to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible,

inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less

responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal.

Be it so--if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of "drawing from

self," the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable: and

if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have

little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but

my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his

imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement,

at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see

several bards (far more deserving, I allow) in very reputable plight,

and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes,

who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than _The

Giaour_, and perhaps--but no--I must admit Childe Harold to be a very

repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give

him whatever "alias" they please.[196]

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be

of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his

readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his

own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself,

Most truly,

And affectionately,

His obedient servant,

BYRON.

_January_ 2, 1814.

THE CORSAIR.[197]

CANTO THE FIRST.

"----nessun maggior dolore,

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria,----"

Dante, _Inferno_, v. 121.

I.

"O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,

Survey our empire, and behold our home![198]

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; 10

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 seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,

And where the feebler faint can only feel-- 20

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, enamoured of decay,

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;[hk]

Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;

Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed,-- 30

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, 40

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

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while:

Such were the sounds that thrilled the rocks along,

And unto ears as rugged seemed a song!

In scattered 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; 50

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:

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. 60

But who that Chief? his name on every shore

Is famed and feared--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 passed untasted too; 70

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 nourished by that abstinence.

"Steer to that shore!"--they sail. "Do this!"--'tis 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; 80

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?[hl]

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. 90

How gloriously her gallant course she goes!

Her white wings flying--never from her foes--

She walks the waters like a thing of Life![199]

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 furled; and anchoring round she swings;

And gathering loiterers on the land discern

Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 100

'Tis manned--the oars keep concert to the strand,

Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.[hm]

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: 110

"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--'tis cheering, though so brief;

But, Juan! instant guide us to our Chief: 120

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, the wild flowers blossoming,

And freshness breathing from each silver spring,

Whose scattered streams from granite basins burst,

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst;

From crag to cliff they mount--Near yonder cave,

What lonely straggler looks along the wave? 130

In pensive posture leaning on the brand,

Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?

"'Tis he--'tis 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, 140

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,

Much that"--"Peace, peace!"--he cuts their prating short.

Wondering they turn, abashed, 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; 150

But, this as if he guessed, with head aside,

Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride,

He read the scroll--"My tablets, Juan, hark--

Where is Gonsalvo?"

"In the anchored 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?"

"Aye! at set of sun:

The breeze will freshen when the day is done.

My corslet--cloak--one hour and we are gone. 160

Sling on thy bugle--see that free from rust

My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust;

Be the edge sharpened 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: 170

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? 180

What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?

The power of Thought--the magic of the Mind!

Linked 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!

'Tis Nature's doom--but let the wretch who toils,

Accuse not--hate not--_him_ who wears the spoils. 190

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; 200

They gaze and marvel how--and still confess

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.

Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale

The sable curls in wild profusion veil;

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.[hn]

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien,

Still seems there something he would not have seen:

His features' deepening lines and varying hue

At times attracted, yet perplexed the view, 210

As if within that murkiness of mind

Worked feelings fearful, and yet undefined;

Such might it be--that none could truly tell--

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell.

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy

The full encounter of his searching eye;

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek[ho]

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,

At once the observer's purpose to espy,

And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 220

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray

Some secret thought, than drag that Chief's to day.

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer,

That raised emotions both of rage and fear;

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,

Hope withering fled--and Mercy sighed farewell![200]

X.[201]

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,

Within--within--'twas there the spirit wrought!

Love shows all changes--Hate, Ambition, Guile,

Betray no further than the bitter smile; 230

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown

Along the governed aspect, speak alone

Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,

He, who would see, must be himself unseen.

Then--with the hurried tread, the upward eye,

The clenchéd hand, the pause of agony,

That listens, starting, lest the step too near

Approach intrusive on that mood of fear:

Then--with each feature working from the heart,

With feelings, loosed to strengthen--not depart, 240

That rise--convulse--contend--that freeze or glow,[hp]

Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow;

Then--Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not,

Behold his soul--the rest that soothes his lot![hq]

Mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears

The scathing thought of execrated years!

Behold--but who hath seen, or e'er shall see,

Man as himself--the secret spirit free?

XI.

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent

To lead the guilty--Guilt's worse instrument-- 250

His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven

Him forth to war with Man and forfeit Heaven.

Warped by the world in Disappointment's school,

In words too wise--in conduct _there_ a fool;

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,

Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe,

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,

And not the traitors who betrayed him still;

Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men

Had left him joy, and means to give again. 260

Feared--shunned--belied--ere Youth had lost her force,

He hated Man too much to feel remorse,

And thought the voice of Wrath a sacred call,

To pay the injuries of some on all.

He knew himself a villain--but he deemed

The rest no better than the thing he seemed;

And scorned the best as hypocrites who hid

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.

He knew himself detested, but he knew

The hearts that loathed him, crouched and dreaded too. 270

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt

From all affection and from all contempt:

His name could sadden, and his acts surprise;

But they that feared him dared not to despise:

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake

The slumbering venom of the folded snake:

The first may turn, but not avenge the blow;

The last expires, but leaves no living foe;

Fast to the doomed offender's form it clings,

And he may crush--not conquer--still it stings![202] 280

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 shunned, nor sought, but coldly passed them by; 290

Though many a beauty drooped in prisoned bower,

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour,

Yes--it was Love--if thoughts of tenderness,

Tried in temptation, strengthened 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; 300

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--aye, 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![hr]

XIII.

He paused a moment--till his hastening men

Passed the first winding downward to the glen. 310

"Strange tidings!--many a peril have I passed,

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.

Aye, let them slumber--peaceful be their dreams!

Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 320

As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!)

To warm these slow avengers of the seas.

Now to Medora--Oh! my sinking heart,[hs]

Long may her own be lighter than thou art!

Yet was I brave--mean boast where all are brave!

Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save.

This common courage which with brutes we share,

That owes its deadliest efforts to Despair,

Small merit claims--but 'twas my nobler hope

To teach my few with numbers still to cope; 330

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." 340

XIV.

Thus with himself communion held he, till

He reached the summit of his tower-crowned 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 his 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. 350

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--[ht]

Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove; 360

Then give me all I ever asked--a tear,[203]

The first--last--sole reward of so much love!"

He passed the portal, crossed the corridor,

And reached the chamber as the strain gave o'er:

"My own Medora! sure thy song is sad--"

"In Conrad's absence would'st 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 unhushed--although my lips were mute! 370

Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined,

My dreaming fear with storms hath winged the wind,

And deemed the breath that faintly fanned thy sail

The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale;

Though soft--it seemed the low prophetic dirge,

That mourned thee floating on the savage surge:

Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,

Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire;

And many a restless hour outwatched each star,

And morning came--and still thou wert afar. 380

Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,

And day broke dreary on my troubled view,

And still I gazed and gazed--and not a prow

Was granted to my tears--my truth--my vow!

At length--'twas noon--I hailed and blest the mast

That met my sight--it neared--Alas! it passed!

Another came--Oh God! 'twas thine at last!

Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne'er,

My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share?

Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 390

As bright as this invites us not to roam:

Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear,

I only tremble when thou art not here;

Then not for mine, but that far dearer life,

Which flies from love and languishes for strife--

How strange that heart, to me so tender still,

Should war with Nature and its better will!"

"Yea, strange indeed--that heart hath long been changed;

Worm-like 'twas trampled--adder-like avenged--

Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 400

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above.

Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn,

My very love to thee is hate to them,

So closely mingling here, that disentwined,

I cease to love thee when I love Mankind:

Yet dread not this--the proof of all the past

Assures the future that my love will last;

But--Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart;

This hour again--but not for long--we part."

"This hour we part!--my heart foreboded this: 410

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.

This hour--it cannot be--this hour away!

Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay:

Her consort still is absent, and her crew

Have need of rest before they toil anew;

My Love! thou mock'st my weakness; and wouldst steel

My breast before the time when it must feel;

But trifle now no more with my distress,

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness.

Be silent, Conrad!--dearest! come and share 420

The feast these hands delighted to prepare;

Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare!

See, I have plucked the fruit that promised best,

And where not sure, perplexed, but pleased, I guessed

At such as seemed the fairest; thrice the hill

My steps have wound to try the coolest rill;

Yes! thy Sherbet to-night will sweetly flow,

See how it sparkles in its vase of snow!

The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers;

Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears: 430

Think not I mean to chide--for I rejoice

What others deem a penance is thy choice.

But come, the board is spread; our silver lamp

Is trimmed, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp:

Then shall my handmaids while the time along,

And join with me the dance, or wake the song;

Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear,

Shall soothe or lull--or, should it vex thine ear,

We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told,

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.[204] 440

Why, thou wert worse than he who broke his vow

To that lost damsel, should thou leave me _now_--

Or even that traitor chief--I've seen thee smile,

When the clear sky showed Ariadne's Isle,

Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while:

And thus half sportive--half in fear--I said,

Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread,

Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main:

And he deceived me--for--he came again!"

"Again, again--and oft again--my Love! 450

If there be life below, and hope above,

He will return--but now, the moments bring

The time of parting with redoubled wing:

The why, the where--what boots it now to tell?

Since all must end in that wild word--Farewell!

Yet would I fain--did time allow--disclose--

Fear not--these are no formidable foes!

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard,

For sudden siege and long defence prepared:

Nor be thou lonely, though thy Lord's away, 460

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay;

And this thy comfort--that, when next we meet,

Security shall make repose more sweet.

List!--'tis the bugle!"--Juan shrilly blew--

"One kiss--one more--another--Oh! Adieu!"

She rose--she sprung--she clung to his embrace,

Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face:

He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye,

Which downcast drooped in tearless agony.

Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 470

In all the wildness of dishevelled charms;

Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt

So full--_that_ feeling seem'd almost unfelt!

Hark--peals the thunder of the signal-gun!

It told 'twas sunset, and he cursed that sun.

Again--again--that form he madly pressed,

Which mutely clasped, imploringly caressed![hu]

And tottering to the couch his bride he bore,

One moment gazed--as if to gaze no more;

Felt that for him Earth held but her alone, 480

Kissed her cold forehead--turned--is Conrad gone?

XV.

"And is he gone?"--on sudden solitude

How oft that fearful question will intrude!

"'Twas but an instant past, and here he stood!

And now"--without the portal's porch she rushed,

And then at length her tears in freedom gushed;

Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell;

But still her lips refused to send--"Farewell!"

For in that word--that fatal word--howe'er

We promise--hope--believe--there breathes Despair. 490

O'er every feature of that still, pale face,

Had Sorrow fixed what Time can ne'er erase:

The tender blue of that large loving eye

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy,

Till--Oh, how far!--it caught a glimpse of him,

And then it flowed, and phrensied seemed to swim

Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dewed

With drops of sadness oft to be renewed.

"He's gone!"--against her heart that hand is driven,

Convulsed and quick--then gently raised to Heaven: 500

She looked and saw the heaving of the main:

The white sail set--she dared not look again;

But turned with sickening soul within the gate--

"It is no dream--and I am desolate!"

XVI.

From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turned his head;

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way

Forced on his eye what he would not survey,

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep,

That hailed him first when homeward from the deep: 510

And she--the dim and melancholy Star,

Whose ray of Beauty reached him from afar,

On her he must not gaze, he must not think--

There he might rest--but on Destruction's brink:

Yet once almost he stopped--and nearly gave

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave:

But no--it must not be--a worthy chief

May melt, but not betray to Woman's grief.

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind,

And sternly gathers all his might of mind: 520

Again he hurries on--and as he hears

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears,

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore,

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar;

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast,

The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast,

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge

That mute Adieu to those who stem the surge;

And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft,

He marvelled how his heart could seem so soft. 530

Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast,

He feels of all his former self possest;

He bounds--he flies--until his footsteps reach

The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach,

There checks his speed; but pauses less to breathe

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath,

Than there his wonted statelier step renew;

Nor rush, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view:

For well had Conrad learned to curb the crowd,

By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud; 540

His was the lofty port, the distant mien,

That seems to shun the sight--and awes if seen:

The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye,

That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy;

All these he wielded to command assent:

But where he wished to win, so well unbent,

That Kindness cancelled fear in those who heard,

And others' gifts showed mean beside his word,

When echoed to the heart as from his own

His deep yet tender melody of tone: 550

But such was foreign to his wonted mood,

He cared not what he softened, but subdued;

The evil passions of his youth had made

Him value less who loved--than what obeyed.

XVII.

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard.

Before him Juan stands--"Are all prepared?"

"They are--nay more--embarked: the latest boat

Waits but my chief----"

"My sword, and my capote."

Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung,

His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung: 560

"Call Pedro here!" He comes--and Conrad bends,

With all the courtesy he deigned his friends;

"Receive these tablets, and peruse with care,

Words of high trust and truth are graven there;

Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark

Arrives, let him alike these orders mark:

In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine

On our return--till then all peace be thine!"

This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung,

Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 570

Flashed the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke,

Around the waves' phosphoric[205] brightness broke;

They gain the vessel--on the deck he stands,--

Shrieks the shrill whistle, ply the busy hands--

He marks how well the ship her helm obeys,

How gallant all her crew, and deigns to praise.

His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn--

Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn?

Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower,

And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 580

She--his Medora--did she mark the prow?

Ah! never loved he half so much as now!

But much must yet be done ere dawn of day--

Again he mans himself and turns away;

Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends,

And there unfolds his plan--his means, and ends;

Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart,

And all that speaks and aids the naval art;

They to the midnight watch protract debate;

To anxious eyes what hour is ever late? 590

Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew,

And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew;

Passed the high headlands of each clustering isle,

To gain their port--long--long ere morning smile:

And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay

Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay.

Count they each sail, and mark how there supine

The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine.

Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow passed by,

And anchored where his ambush meant to lie; 600

Screened from espial by the jutting cape,

That rears on high its rude fantastic shape.[206]

Then rose his band to duty--not from sleep--

Equipped for deeds alike on land or deep;

While leaned their Leader o'er the fretting flood,

And calmly talked--and yet he talked of blood!

CANTO THE SECOND.

"Conosceste i dubbiosi desiri?"

Dante, _Inferno_, v, 120.

I.

In Coron's bay floats many a galley light,

Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright,[207]

For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night:

A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 610

When he shall drag the fettered Rovers home;

This hath he sworn by Allah and his sword,

And faithful to his firman and his word,

His summoned prows collect along the coast,

And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast;

Already shared the captives and the prize,

Though far the distant foe they thus despise;

'Tis but to sail--no doubt to-morrow's Sun

Will see the Pirates bound--their haven won!

Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 620

Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill.

Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek

To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek;

How well such deed becomes the turbaned brave--

To bare the sabre's edge before a slave!

Infest his dwelling--but forbear to slay,

Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day,

And do not deign to smite because they may!

Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow,

To keep in practice for the coming foe. 630

Revel and rout the evening hours beguile,

And they who wish to wear a head must smile;

For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer,

And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear.

II.

High in his hall reclines the turbaned Seyd;

Around--the bearded chiefs he came to lead.

Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff--

Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff,

Though to the rest the sober berry's juice[208]

The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use; 640

The long chibouque's[209] dissolving cloud supply,

While dance the Almas[210] to wild minstrelsy.

The rising morn will view the chiefs embark;

But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark:

And revellers may more securely sleep

On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep:

Feast there who can--nor combat till they must,

And less to conquest than to Korans trust;

And yet the numbers crowded in his host

Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 650

III.

With cautious reverence from the outer gate

Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait,

Bows his bent head--his hand salutes the floor,

Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore:

"A captive Dervise, from the Pirate's nest

Escaped, is here--himself would tell the rest."[211]

He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye,

And led the holy man in silence nigh.

His arms were folded on his dark-green vest,

His step was feeble, and his look deprest; 660

Yet worn he seemed of hardship more than years,

And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears.

Vowed to his God--his sable locks he wore,

And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er:

Around his form his loose long robe was thrown,

And wrapt a breast bestowed on heaven alone;

Submissive, yet with self-possession manned,

He calmly met the curious eyes that scanned;

And question of his coming fain would seek,

Before the Pacha's will allowed to speak. 670

IV.

"Whence com'st thou, Dervise?"

"From the Outlaw's den

A fugitive--"

"Thy capture where and when?"

"From Scalanova's port[212] to Scio's isle,

The Saick[213] was bound; but Allah did not smile

Upon our course--the Moslem merchant's gains

The Rovers won; our limbs have worn their chains.

I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast,

Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost;

At length a fisher's humble boat by night

Afforded hope, and offered chance of flight; 680

I seized the hour, and find my safety here--

With thee--most mighty Pacha! who can fear?"

"How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared,

Their plundered wealth, and robber's rock, to guard?

Dream they of this our preparation, doomed

To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?"

"Pacha! the fettered captive's mourning eye,

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy;

I only heard the reckless waters roar,

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; 690

I only marked the glorious Sun and sky,

Too bright--too blue--for my captivity;

And felt that all which Freedom's bosom cheers

Must break my chain before it dried my tears.

This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape,

They little deem of aught in Peril's shape;

Else vainly had I prayed 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. 700

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."

"Stay, Dervise! I have more to question--stay,

I do command thee--sit--dost hear?--obey!

More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring;

Thou shall not pine where all are banqueting:

The supper done--prepare thee to reply,

Clearly and full--I love not mystery." 710

'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man,

Who looked not lovingly on that Divan;

Nor showed high relish for the banquet prest,

And less respect for every fellow guest.

Twas but a moment's peevish hectic passed

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 ushered in--but sumptuous fare

He shunned as if some poison mingled there. 720

For one so long condemned 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,[214]

Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge,

Makes even contending tribes in peace unite,

And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight!"

"Salt seasons dainties--and my food is still

The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill; 730

And my stern vow and Order's[215] laws oppose

To break or mingle bread with friends or foes;

It may seem strange--if there be aught to dread

That peril rests upon my single head;

But for thy sway--nay more--thy Sultan's throne,

I taste nor bread nor banquet--save alone;

Infringed our Order's rule, the Prophet's rage

To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage."

"Well--as thou wilt--ascetic as thou art--

One question answer; then in peace depart. 740

How many?--Ha! it cannot sure be day?

What Star--what Sun is bursting on the bay?

It shines a lake of fire!--away--away!

Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar!

The galleys feed the flames--and I afar!

Accurséd Dervise!--these thy tidings--thou

Some villain spy--seize--cleave him--slay him now!"

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light,

Nor less his change of form appalled the sight:

Up rose that Dervise--not in saintly garb, 750

But like a warrior bounding on his barb,

Dashed his high cap, and tore his robe away--

Shone his mailed breast, and flashed 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-- 760

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![216]

He saw their terror--checked the first despair

That urged him but to stand and perish there,

Since far too early and too well obeyed,

The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 770

He saw their terror--from his baldric drew

His bugle--brief the blast--but shrilly blew;

'Tis answered--"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, 780

And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head:

Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelmed, with rage, surprise,

Retreats before him, though he still defies.

No craven he--and yet he dreads the blow,

So much Confusion magnifies his foe!

His blazing galleys still distract his sight,

He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight;[217]

For now the pirates passed the Haram gate,

And burst within--and it were death to wait;

Where wild Amazement shrieking--kneeling--throws 790

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,

Proclaimed 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-- 800

Their galleys blaze--why not their city too?"

V.

Quick at the word they seized him each a torch,

And fire the dome from minaret to porch.

A stern delight was fixed in Conrad's eye,

But sudden sunk--for on his ear the cry

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell

Knocked at that heart unmoved by Battle's yell.

"Oh! burst the Haram--wrong not on your lives

One female form--remember--_we_ have wives.

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay; 810

Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay:

But still we spared--must spare the weaker prey.

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. 820

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! 830

VI.

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,[218]

Few words to reassure the trembling Fair;

For in that pause Compassion snatched 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. 840

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 flowed too well--

When Wrath returns to renovated strife,

And those who fought for conquest strike for life.

Conrad beheld the danger--he beheld

His followers faint by freshening foes repelled:

"One effort--one--to break the circling host!"

They form--unite--charge--waver--all is lost! 850

Within a narrower ring compressed, beset,

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet--

Ah! now they fight in firmest file no more,

Hemmed in--cut off--cleft down and trampled o'er;

But each strikes singly--silently--and home,

And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome--

His last faint quittance rendering with his breath,

Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of Death!

VII.

But first, ere came the rallying host to blows,

And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 860

Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed,

Safe in the dome of one who held their creed,

By Conrad's mandate safely were bestowed,

And dried those tears for life and fame that flowed:

And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare,

Recalled those thoughts late wandering in despair,

Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy

That smoothed his accents, softened in his eye--

'Twas strange--_that_ robber thus with gore bedewed,

Seemed gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 870

The Pacha wooed as if he deemed the slave

_Must_ seem delighted with the heart he gave;

The Corsair vowed 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 remembered not!"

VIII.

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread,

But gathered breathing from the happier dead; 880

Far from his band, and battling with a host

That deem right dearly won the field he lost,

Felled--bleeding--baffled of the death he sought,

And snatched to expiate all the ills he wrought;

Preserved to linger and to live in vain,

While Vengeance pondered o'er new plans of pain,

And stanched the blood she saves to shed again--

But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye

Would doom him ever dying--ne'er to die!

Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, 890

When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law!

'Tis he indeed--disarmed but undeprest,

His sole regret the life he still possest;

His wounds too slight, though taken with that will,

Which would have kissed the hand that then could kill.

Oh were there none, of all the many given,

To send his soul--he scarcely asked to Heaven?[219]

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, 900

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, 910

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 920

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 famished 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, 930

And left proud Conrad fettered and alone.

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,[220]

When all its elements convulsed, combined

Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force,

And gnashing with impenitent Remorse--

That juggling fiend, who never spake before,

But cries "I warned thee!" when the deed is o'er.

Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent, 940

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,

Endangered Glory, Life itself beset;

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 950

'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;

The hopeless past, the hasting future driven

Too quickly on to guess if Hell or Heaven;

Deeds--thoughts--and words, perhaps remembered 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 unrevealed,

Not cankering less because the more concealed;

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 960

That opening sepulchre, the naked heart[221]

Bares with its buried woes--till Pride awake,

To snatch the mirror from the soul, and break.

Aye, 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, steeled by pondering o'er his far career, 970

He half-way meets Him should He menace near!

XI.

In the high chamber of his highest tower

Sate Conrad, fettered in the Pacha's power.

His palace perished in the flame--this fort

Contained at once his captive and his court.

Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame,

His foe, if vanquished, had but shared the same:--

Alone he sate--in solitude had scanned

His guilty bosom, but that breast he manned:

One thought alone he could not--dared not meet-- 980

"Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?"

Then--only then--his clanking hands he raised,

And strained with rage the chain on which he gazed;

But soon he found, or feigned, or dreamed relief,

And smiled in self-derision of his grief,

"And now come Torture when it will, or may--

More need of rest to nerve me for the day!"

This said, with langour to his mat he crept,

And, whatso'er his visions, quickly slept.

'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 990

For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done,

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time,

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime.

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemmed--

Disguised--discovered--conquering--ta'en--condemned--

A Chief on land--an outlaw on the deep--

Destroying--saving--prisoned--and asleep!

XII.

He slept in calmest seeming, for his breath[222]

Was hushed so deep--Ah! happy if in death!

He slept--Who o'er his placid slumber bends? 1000

His foes are gone--and here he hath no friends;

Is it some Seraph sent to grant him grace?

No,'tis an earthly form with heavenly face!

Its white arm raised a lamp--yet gently hid,

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid

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 gemmed and braided hair;

With shape of fairy lightness--naked foot, 1010

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 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 adorned her hand before--

And with it, scarcely questioned, won her way

Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 1020

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? 1030

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 seemed 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 wondrous fair!" 1040

"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

Snatched 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, 1050

That would confess me at so fair a shrine!"

Strange though it seem--yet with extremest grief

Is linked 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[223] 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 flashed on Conrad, now 1060

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 1070

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, 1080

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; 1090

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 appeared, Gulnare!

Mine eye ne'er asked if others were as 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, 1100

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 redeemed 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 favoured slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest! 1110

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 checked--nor quickened--calmly cold:

And when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight

From one I never loved enough to hate. 1120

No warmth these lips return by his imprest,

And chilled 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 unmourned--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. 1130

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,[hv]

Remember--Captive! 'tis to break thy chain;

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;

To give thee back to all endeared 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!" 1140

XV.

She pressed his fettered fingers to her heart,

And bowed her head, and turned her to depart,

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.

And was she here? and is he now alone?

What gem hath dropped 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 polished by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear--

In Woman's eye the unanswerable tear! 1150

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! 1160

XVI.

'Tis Morn--and o'er his altered 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 stiffened limb,

Refreshing earth--reviving all but him!

CANTO THE THIRD.

"Come vedi--ancor non m'abbandona"

Dante, _Inferno_, v. 105.

I.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,[224]

Along Morea's hills the setting Sun; 1170

Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,

But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws,

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.

On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,[225]

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, unconquered Salamis! 1180

Their azure arches through the long expanse

More deeply purpled met 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 looked his last.

How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,

That closed their murdered Sage's[226] latest day! 1190

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 seemed to pour,

The land, where Phoebus never frowned before:

But ere he sunk below Cithæron's head,

The cup of woe was quaffed--the Spirit fled;

The Soul of him who scorned to fear or fly--

Who lived and died, as none can live or die! 1200

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,

The Queen of night asserts her silent reign.[227]

No murky vapour, herald of the storm,

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;

With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams 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 scattered dark and wide

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide; 1210

The cypress saddening by the sacred Mosque,

The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk;[228]

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 passed him 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, 1220

Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle,

That frown--where gentler Ocean seems to smile.

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! 1230

Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain,

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain--[229]

Would that with freedom it were thine again!

III.

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 returned, and yet

His only tidings that they had not met! 1240

Though wild, as now, far different were the tale

Had Conrad waited for that single sail.

The night-breeze freshens--she that day had passed

In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast;

Sadly she sate on high--Impatience bore

At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,

And there she wandered, heedless of the spray

That dashed her garments oft, and warned away:

She saw not, felt not this--nor dared depart,

Nor deemed it cold--her chill was at her heart; 1250

Till grew such certainty from that suspense--

His very Sight had shocked from life or sense!

It came at last--a sad and shattered 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 appeared to wait

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:

Something they would have said; but seemed to fear

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 1260

She saw at once, yet sunk not--trembled not--

Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,

That deemed not till they found their energy.

While yet was Hope they softened, fluttered, wept--

All lost--that Softness died not--but it slept;

And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,

"With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread."

'Tis more than Nature's--like the burning might

Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 1270

"Silent you stand--nor would I hear you tell

What--speak not--breathe not--for I know it well--

Yet would I ask--almost my lip denies

The--quick your answer--tell me where he lies."

"Lady! we know not--scarce with life we fled;

But here is one denies that he is dead:

He saw him bound; and bleeding--but alive."

She heard no further--'twas in vain to strive--

So throbbed each vein--each thought--till then withstood;

Her own dark soul--these words at once subdued: 1280

She totters--falls--and senseless had the wave

Perchance but snatched her from another grave;

But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,

They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:[hw]

Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,

Raise, fan, sustain--till life returns anew;

Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave

That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;

Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report

The tale too tedious--when the triumph short. 1290

IV.

In that wild council words waxed warm and strange,[hx]

With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge;

All, save repose or flight: still lingering there

Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair;

Whate'er his fate--the breasts he formed and led

Will save him living, or appease him dead.

Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few,

Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true.

V.

Within the Haram's secret chamber sate[230]

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; 1300

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell,

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell;

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined

Surveys his brow--would soothe his gloom of mind;

While many an anxious glance her large dark eye

Sends in its idle search for sympathy,

_His_ only bends in seeming o'er his beads,[231]

But inly views his victim as he bleeds.

"Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest

Sits Triumph--Conrad taken--fall'n the rest! 1310

His doom is fixed--he dies; and well his fate

Was earned--yet much too worthless for thy hate:

Methinks, a short release, for ransom told[hy]

With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;

Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard--

Would that of this my Pacha were the lord!

While baffled, weakened by this fatal fray--

Watched--followed--he were then an easier prey;

But once cut off--the remnant of his band

Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 1320

"Gulnare!--if for each drop of blood a gem

Where offered rich as Stamboul's diadem;

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 redeemed a single hour,

But that I know him fettered, in my power;

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still

On pangs that longest rack--and latest kill." 1330

"Nay, Seyd! I seek not to restrain thy rage,

Too justly moved for Mercy to assuage;

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 _could!_--and shall I then resign

One day to him--the wretch already mine?

Release my foe!--at whose remonstrance?--thine!

Fair suitor!--to thy virtuous gratitude, 1340

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood,

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare--

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.[hz]

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, 1350

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks:

Then--lovely Dame--bethink thee! and beware:

'Tis not _his_ life alone may claim such care!

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 mourned thee with a lover's woe--

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: 1360

Look to thyself--nor deem thy falsehood safe!"

He rose--and slowly, sternly thence withdrew,

Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu:

Ah! little recked that Chief of womanhood--

Which frowns ne'er quelled, nor menaces subdued;

And little deemed he what thy heart, Gulnare!

When soft could feel--and when incensed could dare!

His doubts appeared to wrong--nor yet she knew

How deep the root from whence Compassion grew--

She was a slave--from such may captives claim 1370

A fellow-feeling, differing but in name;

Still half unconscious--heedless of his wrath,

Again she ventured on the dangerous path,

Again his rage repelled--until arose

That strife of thought, the source of Woman's woes!

VI.

Meanwhile--long--anxious--weary--still the same

Rolled day and night: his soul could Terror tame--

This fearful interval of doubt and dread,

When every hour might doom him worse than dead;[ia]

When every step that echoed by the gate, 1380

Might entering lead where axe and stake await;

When every voice that grated on his ear

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 decayed--yet silent bore

That conflict, deadlier far than all before:

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale,

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail:

But bound and fixed in fettered solitude, 1390

To pine, the prey of every changing mood;

To gaze on thine own heart--and meditate

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;

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie,

And blot Life's latest scene with calumny;

Before thee tortures, which the Soul can dare, 1400

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear;

But deeply feels a single cry would shame,

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.

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain,

And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain:

And those sustained he--boots it well or ill? 1410

Since not to sink beneath, is something still!

VII.

The first day passed--he saw not her--Gulnare--

The second, third--and still she came not there;

But what her words avouched, her charms had done,

Or else he had not seen another Sun.

The fourth day rolled along, and with the night

Came storm and darkness in their mingling might.

Oh! how he listened to the rushing deep,

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep;

And his wild Spirit wilder wishes sent, 1420

Roused by the roar of his own element!

Oft had he ridden on that wingéd wave,

And loved its roughness for the speed it gave;

And now its dashing echoed 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;[232]

And flashed the lightning by the latticed bar,

To him more genial than the Midnight Star:

Close to the glimmering grate he dragged his chain, 1430

And hoped _that_ peril might not prove in vain.

He rais'd his iron hand to Heaven, and prayed

One pitying flash to mar the form it made:

His steel and impious prayer attract alike--

The storm rolled onward, and disdained to strike;

Its peal waxed fainter--ceased--he felt alone,

As if some faithless friend had spurned his groan!

VIII.

The midnight passed, and to the massy door

A light step came--it paused--it moved once more;

Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: 1440

'Tis as his heart foreboded--that fair She!

Whate'er her sins, to him a Guardian Saint,

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!

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 1450

What last proclaimed they--Conrad still the same:

Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare,

And change the sentence I deserve to bear?

Well have I earned--nor here alone--the meed

Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed."

"Why should I seek? because--Oh! did'st thou not

Redeem my life from worse than Slavery's lot?

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 1460

With all that Woman feels, but should not tell--

Because--despite thy crimes--that heart is moved:

It feared thee--thanked thee--pitied--maddened--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.

If that thy heart to hers were truly dear,

Were I thine own--thou wert not lonely here:

An outlaw's spouse--and leave her Lord to roam! 1470

What hath such gentle dame to do with home?

But speak not now--o'er thine and o'er my head

Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread;[ib]

If thou hast courage still, and would'st be free,

Receive this poniard--rise and follow me!"

"Aye--in my chains! my steps will gently tread,

With these adornments, o'er such slumbering head!

Thou hast forgot--is this a garb for flight?

Or is that instrument more fit for fight?"

"Misdoubting Corsair! I have gained the guard, 1480

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward.

A single word of mine removes that chain:

Without some aid how here could I remain?

Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time,

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime:

The crime--'tis none to punish those of Seyd.

That hatred tyrant, Conrad--he must bleed!

I see thee shudder, but my soul is changed--

Wronged--spurned--reviled--and it shall be avenged--

Accused of what till now my heart disdained-- 1490

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chained.

Yes, smile!--but he had little cause to sneer,

I was not treacherous then, nor thou too dear:

But he has said it--and the jealous well,--

Those tyrants--teasing--tempting to rebel,--

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell.

I never loved--he bought me--somewhat high--

Since with me came a heart he could not buy.

I was a slave unmurmuring; he hath said,

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 1500

'Twas false thou know'st--but let such Augurs rue,

Their words are omens Insult renders true.

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer;

This fleeting grace was only to prepare

New torments for thy life, and my despair.

Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will:

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me,

There yawns the sack--and yonder rolls the sea!

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 1510

To wear but till the gilding frets away?

I saw thee--loved thee--owe thee all--would save,

If but to show how grateful is a slave.

But had he not thus menaced fame and life,--

And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife--

I still had saved thee--but the Pacha spared:

Now I am all thine own--for all prepared:

Thou lov'st me not--nor know'st--or but the worst.

Alas! _this_ love--_that_ hatred--are the first--

Oh! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not start, 1520

Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart;

'Tis now the beacon of thy safety--now

It points within the port a Mainote prow:

But in one chamber, where our path must lead,

There sleeps--he must not wake--the oppressor Seyd!"

"Gulnare--Gulnare--I never felt till now

My abject fortune, withered fame so low:

Seyd is mine enemy; had swept my band

From earth with ruthless but with open hand,

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 1530

To smite the smiter with the scimitar;

Such is my weapon--not the secret knife;

Who spares a Woman's seeks not Slumber's life.

Thine saved I gladly, Lady--not for this;

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss.

Now fare thee well--more peace be with thy breast!

Night wears apace, my last of earthly rest!"[ic]

"Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake,

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake,

I heard the order--saw--I will not see-- 1540

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee.

My life--my love--my hatred--all below

Are on this cast--Corsair! 'tis but a blow!

Without it flight were idle--how evade

His sure pursuit?--my wrongs too unrepaid,

My youth disgraced--the long, long wasted years,

One blow shall cancel with our future fears;

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand,

I'll try the firmness of a female hand.

The guards are gained--one moment all were o'er-- 1550

Corsair! we meet in safety or no more;

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud."

IX.

She turned, and vanished ere he could reply,

But his glance followed far with eager eye;

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound,

Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude,

He, fast as fettered limbs allow, pursued.

'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 1560

That passage led; nor lamp nor guard was there:

He sees a dusky glimmering--shall he seek

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak?

Chance guides his steps--a freshness seems to bear

Full on his brow as if from morning air;

He reached an open gallery--on his eye

Gleamed the last star of night, the clearing sky:

Yet scarcely heeded these--another light

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight.

Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door 1570

Revealed the ray within, but nothing more.

With hasty step a figure outward passed,

Then paused, and turned--and paused--'tis She at last!

No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill--

"Thanks to that softening heart--she could not kill!"

Again he looked, the wildness of her eye

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully.

She stopped--threw back her dark far-floating hair,

That nearly veiled her face and bosom fair,

As if she late had bent her leaning head 1580

Above some object of her doubt or dread.

They meet--upon her brow--unknown--forgot--

Her hurrying hand had left--'twas but a spot--

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood--

Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime--'tis Blood!

X.

He had seen battle--he had brooded lone

O'er promised pangs to sentenced Guilt foreshown;

He had been tempted--chastened--and the chain

Yet on his arms might ever there remain:

But ne'er from strife--captivity--remorse-- 1590

From all his feelings in their inmost force--

So thrilled, so shuddered every creeping vein,

As now they froze before that purple stain.

That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak,

Had banished all the beauty from her cheek!

Blood he had viewed--could view unmoved--but then

It flowed in combat, or was shed by men![id]

XI.

"'Tis done--he nearly waked--but it is done.

Corsair! he perished--thou art dearly won.

All words would now be vain--away--away! 1600

Our bark is tossing--'tis already day.

The few gained over, now are wholly mine,

And these thy yet surviving band shall join:

Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand,

When once our sail forsakes this hated strand."

XII.

She clapped her hands, and through the gallery pour,

Equipped for flight, her vassals--Greek and Moor;

Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind;

Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind!

But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 1610

As if they there transferred that iron weight.

No words are uttered--at her sign, a door

Reveals the secret passage to the shore;

The city lies behind--they speed, they reach

The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach;

And Conrad following, at her beck, obeyed,

Nor cared he now if rescued or betrayed;

Resistance were as useless as if Seyd

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed.

XIII.

Embarked--the sail unfurled--the light breeze blew-- 1620

How much had Conrad's memory to review![ie]

Sunk he in contemplation, till the Cape

Where last he anchored reared its giant shape.

Ah!--since that fatal night, though brief the time,

Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime.

As its far shadow frowned above the mast,

He veiled his face, and sorrowed as he passed;

He thought of all--Gonsalvo and his band,

His fleeting triumph and his failing hand;

He thought on her afar, his lonely bride: 1630

He turned and saw--Gulnare, the Homicide!

XIV.

She watched his features till she could not bear

Their freezing aspect and averted air;

And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye

Fell quenched in tears, too late to shed or dry.[if]

She knelt beside him and his hand she pressed,

"Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest;

But for that deed of darkness what wert thou?

Reproach me--but not yet--Oh! spare me _now!_

I am not what I seem--this fearful night 1640

My brain bewildered--do not madden quite!

If I had never loved--though less my guilt--

Thou hadst not lived to--hate me--if thou wilt."

XV.

She wrongs his thoughts--they more himself upbraid

Than her--though undesigned--the wretch he made;

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest,

They bleed within that silent cell--his breast.

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge,

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge;

Far on the Horizon's verge appears a speck, 1650

A spot--a mast--a sail--an arméd deck!

Their little bark her men of watch descry,

And ampler canvass woos the wind from high;

She bears her down majestically near,

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier;[ig][233]

A flash is seen--the ball beyond her 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-rag flag! again--again-- 1660

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, 1670

Returns their greeting as a Chief may greet,

Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand,

And feels he yet can conquer and command!

XVI.

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,

Yet grieve to win him back without a blow;

They sailed 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, 1680

They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare;

And her, at once above--beneath her sex,

Whom blood appalled not, their regards perplex.[ih]

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 resigned the rest.

Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill,

Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,

The worst of crimes had left her Woman still! 1690

XVII.

This Conrad marked, 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![234]

And now he turned him to that dark-eyed slave

Whose brow was bowed beneath the glance he gave, 1700

Who now seemed 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 stained it from the dead!

He took that hand--it trembled--now too late--

So soft in love--so wildly nerved in hate;

He clasped that hand--it trembled--and his own

Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone.

"Gulnare!"--but she replied not--"dear Gulnare!"[ii]

She raised her eye--her only answer there-- 1710

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 joined the rest.

Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss[ij]

That asked from form so fair no more than this,

The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith--

To lips where Love had lavished all his breath, 1720

To lips--whose broken sighs such fragrance fling,

As he had fanned them freshly with his wing![ik]

XVIII.

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! 1730

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?[il]

XIX.

The lights are high on beacon and from bower,

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:

He looks in vain--'tis strange--and all remark,

Amid so many, hers alone is dark.

'Tis strange--of yore its welcome never failed,

Nor now, perchance, extinguished--only veiled. 1740

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 reached his turret door--he paused--no sound

Broke from within; and all was night around. 1750

He knocked, and loudly--footstep nor reply

Announced that any heard or deemed him nigh:

He knocked, but faintly--for his trembling hand

Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.

The portal opens--'tis a well known face--

But not the form he panted to embrace.

Its lips are silent--twice his own essayed,

And failed to frame the question they delayed;

He snatched the lamp--its light will answer all--

It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 1760

He would not wait for that reviving ray--

As soon could he have lingered there for day;

But, glimmering through the dusky corridor,

Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor;

His steps the chamber gain--his eyes behold

All that his heart believed not--yet foretold!

XX.

He turned not--spoke not--sunk not--fixed 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! 1770

In life itself she was so still and fair,

That Death with gentler aspect withered there;

And the cold flowers[235] her colder hand contained,

In that last grasp as tenderly were strained

As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a sleep--

And made it almost mockery yet to weep:

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,

And veiled--Thought shrinks from all that lurked below--Oh!

o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,[236]

And hurls the Spirit from her throne of light; 1780

Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips--

Yet, yet they seem as they forebore to smile,

And wished 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;[im]

These--and the pale pure cheek, became the bier--

But She is nothing--wherefore is he here? 1790

XXI.

He asked no question--all were answered now

By the first glance on that still, marble brow.[in]

It was enough--she died--what recked 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 fixed below 1800

Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe,

Lose in that one their all--perchance a 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, 1810

Which seeks from all the refuge found in none;

No words suffice the secret soul to show,

For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.

On Conrad's stricken soul Exhaustion prest,

And Stupor almost lulled 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 confessed without relieving pain.

None saw his trickling tears--perchance, if seen, 1820

That useless flood of grief had never been:

Nor long they flowed--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.[io]

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!

XXIII.[237]

His heart was formed for softness--warped to wrong, 1830

Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long;

Each feeling pure--as falls the dropping dew

Within the grot--like that had hardened too;

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed,

But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last.[238]

Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock;

If such his heart, so shattered it the shock.

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,

Though dark the shade--it sheltered--saved till now.

The thunder came--that bolt hath blasted both, 1840

The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth:

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell

Its tale, but shrunk and withered where it fell;

And of its cold protector, blacken round

But shivered fragments on the barren ground!

XXIV.

'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, alarmed, their isle is traversed o'er:

Another morn--another bids them seek, 1850

And shout his name till Echo waxeth weak;

Mount--grotto--cavern--valley searched in vain,

They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain:

Their hope revives--they follow o'er the main.

'Tis 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 perished his despair!

Long mourned his band whom none could mourn beside;

And fair the monument they gave his Bride: 1860

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,

Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.[239]