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And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.

He knew himself detested, but he knew

The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too.
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 fear'd 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 doom'd offender's form it clings,
And he may crush-not conquer-still it stings!

None are all evil-quickening round his heart,
One softer feeling would not yet depart;
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled
By passions worthy of a fool or child;
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,
And even in him it asks the name of Love!
Yes, it was love—unchangeable—unchanged,
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;
Though fairest captives daily met his eye,
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ;
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower,
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.
Yes-it was Love-if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,

And yet-Oh more than all !-untired by time;
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,
Could render sullen were she near to smile,
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent;

THE PARTING OF CONRAD AND MEDORA.

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove-
If there be love in mortals-this was love!
He was a villain—ay, reproaches shower
On him-but not the passion, nor its power,
Which only proved, all other virtues gone,
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!

THE CORSAIR.

THE PARTING OF CONRAD AND MEDORA.

AGAIN-again-and oft again-my love!
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!
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 droop'd in tearless agony.
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms,
In all the wildness of dishevell❜d 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 press'd,
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd!

63

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,
Kiss'd her cold forehead-turn'd-is Conrad gone?

"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 rush'd,
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd;
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.
O'er
every
feature of that still, pale face,
Had sorrow fix'd 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 flow'd, and phrensied seem'd to swim,
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd.

"He's gone!"—against her heart that hand is driven,
Convulsed and quick, then gently raised to heaven;
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ;
The white sail set-she dared not look again;
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate-
"It is no dream—and I am desolate!"

From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd 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 hail'd him first when homeward from the deep:

THE PARTING OF CONRAD AND MEDORA.

And she, the dim and melancholy star,
Whose ray of beauty reach'd 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 stopp'd, 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:
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 marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft.

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, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view.

THE CORSAIR.

VOL. II.

F

65

THE CORSAIR'S STRATAGEM.*

"WHENCE Com'st thou, Dervise?"

A fugitive-"

"From the outlaw's den

"Thy capture where and when ?"

"From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle,

The Saick 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 offer'd chance of flight;
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, doom'd

To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?"

"Pacha! the fetter'd 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; I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky,

Too bright, too blue, for my captivity;

* The Corsair, having learnt the design of the Pacha to invade his island, makes an expedition by night to anticipate his antagonist, and burn his fleet. In order to reconnoitre, he introduces himself into the Pacha's presence under the disguise of a Dervise who had been aken prisoner by the pirates and afterwards escaped.

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