X.

'T were 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,
When all its elements convulsed - combined
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse;
That juggling fiend - who never spake before
But cries "I warn'd thee!" when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe - rebel - the weak alone repent!
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all-all that self reveals,
No single passion, and no ruling thought
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought;
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews
All rushing through their thousand avenues,
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret,
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset;

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven;
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern reflection each a crime;
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd,

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd -
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul - and break.
Ay-Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all,
All-all- before
beyond the deadliest fall.
Each has some fear, and he who least betrays,
The only hypocrite deserving praise:

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies;
But he who looks on death and silent dies.
So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career,
He half-way meets him should he menace near !

XI.

In the high chamber of his highest tower
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power.
His palace perish'd in the flame this fort
Contain'd at once his captive and his court.
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame,
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same:
Alone he sate - in solitude had scann'd
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd:
One thought alone he could not - dared not meet
"Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?"
Then only then - his clanking hands he raised,
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed:
But soon he found - or feign'd - or dream'd relief,
And 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 languor to his mat he crept,
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept.
'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun,
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 stemm'd
Disguised-discover'd - conquering

A chief on land - an outlaw on the deep Destroying-saving - prison'd - and asleep!

XII.

He slept in calmest seeming - for his breath
Was hush'd so deep - Ah! happy if in death!
He slept Who o'er his placid slumber bends?
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 gemm'd and braided hair;
With shape of fairy lightness - naked foot,
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute
Through guards and dunnest night how came it there?
Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare?
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare!
She could not sleep - and while the Pacha's rest
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest,
She left his side - his signet-ring she bore,
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before -
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey.
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows,
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose;
And chill and nodding at the turret door,

They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more:
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring,
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring.

my

Were these-my bark-my sword - my love
The last I left in youth - he leaves me now
And Man but works his will to lay me low.
I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;
It is enough-I breathe - and I can bear.
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand
That might have better kept so true a brand;
My bark is sunk or captive-but my love -
For her in sooth my voice would mount above:
Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind
And this will break a heart so more than kind,
And blight a form-till thine appear'd, Gulnare!
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair."

"Thou lov'st another then? - but what to me
Is this 't is nothing- nothing e'er can be:
But yet thou lov'st-and-Oh! I envy those
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose,
Who never feel the void -the wandering thought
That sighs o'er visions - such as mine hath wrought."

"Lady-methought thy love was his, for whom This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb."

"My love stern Seyd's! Oh-No-No-not my love Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove To meet his passion-but it would not be.

I felt I feel - love dwells with with the free.
I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest!
Oft must my soul the question undergo,
Of-Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, No!'

1 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she remarked, that it was too slender to trouble the headsman much." During one part of the French Revolution, it became

Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,
And struggle not to feel averse in vain;
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear,
And hide from one - perhaps another there.
He takes the hand I give not-nor withhold
Its pulse nor check'd-nor quicken'd - calmly cold:

And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight
From one I never loved enough to hate.
No warmth these lips return by his imprest,
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest.
Yes-had I ever proved that passion's zeal,
The change to hatred were at least to feel :
But still he goes unmourn'd - returns unsought
And oft when present - absent from my thought.
Or when reflection comes-and come it must
I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust;
I am his slave - but, in despite of pride,
'T were worse than bondage to become his bride.
Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!
Or seek another and give mine release,
But yesterday - I could have said, to peace!
Yes-if unwonted fondness now I feign,
Remember - captive! 'tis to break thy chain;
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;
To give thee back to all endear'd below,
Who share such love as I can never know.
Farewell- morn breaks
'T will cost me dear

- and I must now away: but dread no death to-day!"

XV.

Oh! too convincing - dangerously dear -
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear !
That weapon of her weakness she can wield,
To save, subdue - at once her spear and shield:
Avoid it Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.
Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven;
By this - how many lose not earth - but heaven!
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe.

XVI.

'Tis morn - and o'er his alter'd features play
The beams - without the hope of yesterday.
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing,
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing,
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt;
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,
Chill-wet- and misty round each stiffen'd limb,
Refreshing earth - reviving all but him! -

a fashion to leave some "mot" as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 1
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,
When - Athens! here thy Wisest look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's 2 latest day!
Not yet-not yet Sol pauses on the hill -
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonising eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phœbus never frown'd before;
But ere he sank below Cithæron's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly
Who lived and died, as none can live or die!

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 3
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moon-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 scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, +

The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem; but they were written on the spot, in the Spring of 1811, and I scarce know why the reader must excuse their appearance here - if he can. See post, "Curse of Minerva"]

Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.

3 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country: the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration.

The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple

Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown- where gentler ocean seems to smile. 5

II.

Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts to thee?
Oh! who can look along thy native sea,
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale,
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ?
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set,
Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget?
Not he whose heart nor time nor distance frees,
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades !
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain,
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain
Would that with freedom it were thine again!

It came at last - a sad and shatter'd boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding-all most wretched these the few-
Scarce knew they how escaped - this all they knew.
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:
Something they would have said; but seem'd to fear
To trust their accents to Medora's ear.
She saw at once, yet sunk not - trembled not -
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,

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

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

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, That deem'd not till they found their energy. While yet was Hope they soften'd - flutter'd

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.

"Silent you stand What speak not Yet would I ask

The

nor would I hear you tell breathe not- for I know it almost my lip denies [well

- 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 So throbb'd each vein withstood;

While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray Watch'd- follow'd - he were then an easier prey; But once cut off the remnant of his band Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand."

"Gulnare! - if for each drop of blood a gem
Were offer'd 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 redeem'd a single hour;
But that I know him fetter'd, in my power;
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill."

't was in vain to strive

Her own dark soul
these words at once subdued:
She totters falls
and senseless had the wave
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave;
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:
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.

IV.

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange,
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 form'd 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 1
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate;
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,
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!
His doom is fix'd - he dies and well his fate
Was earn'd - yet much too worthless for thy hate:
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard-
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord!

The whole of this section was added in the course of printing.]

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,
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.
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,
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
I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe
Now 't is 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:
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 reck'd that chief of womanhood -
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued;
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare!
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare.
His doubts appear'd to wrong - nor yet she knew
How deep the root from whence compassion grew
She was a slave - from such may captives claim
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name;
Still half unconscious - heedless of his wrath,
Again she ventured on the dangerous path,
Again his rage repell'd - until arose

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes!

2 The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are in number Linety-nine.

VI.

Meanwhile-long anxious-weary-still-the same
Roll'd day and night - his soul could never tame
This fearful interval of doubt and dread,
When every hour might doom him worse than dead,
When every step that echo'd by the gate
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;
"T was worn - perhaps decay'd - 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 fix'd in fetter'd solitude,
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,
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 sustain'd he - boots it well or ill?
Since not to sink beneath, is something still!

VIL.

The first day pass'd- he saw not her - Gulnare -
The second third-and still she came not there;
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done,
Or else he had not seen another sun.

The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might:
Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep,
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep;
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent,
Roused by the roar of his own element !
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave,
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave;
And now its dashing echo'd 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;
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar,
To him more genial than the midnight star:
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain,
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain.

[By the way - I have a charge against you. As the great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occasion, By G-d, that is my thunder!' so do I exclaim, This is my light. mng!" I allude to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Pe. trowna and the Empress, where the thought, and almost expression, are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of the Corsair. I, however, do not say this to accuse you, but to except myself from suspicion; as there is a priority of six Il months' publication, on my part, between the appearance of that composition and of your tragedies.". Lord Byron to

He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd
One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 1
His steel and impious prayer attract alike
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike;
Its peal wax'd fainter - ceased - he felt alone,
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan!

VIII.

The midnight pass'd - and to the massy door
A light step came-it paused - it moved once more;
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key:
'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
What last proclaim'd 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 earn'd - nor here alone - the meed
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed."

"Why should I seek? because - Oh! didst 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
With all that woman feels, but should not tell -
Because-despite thy crimes that heart is moved:
It fear'd thee - thank'd thee - pitied-madden'd-

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!
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;
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free,
Receive this poniard - rise and follow me!"

"Ay-in my chains! my steps will gently tread,
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head!
Thou hast forgot - is this a garb for flight?
Or is that instrument more fit for fight?"

"Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard,
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward.
A single word of mine removes that chain :
Without some aid how here could I remain ?

Mr. Sotheby, Sept. 25. 1815. - The following are the lines in Mr. Sotheby's tragedy:

"And I have leapt

In transport from my flinty couch, to welcome
The thunder as it burst upon my roof;

And beckon'd to the lightning, as it flash'd
And sparkled on these fetters."

Notwithstanding Lord Byron's precaution, the coincidence in question was cited against him, some years after, in a periodical journal.]