Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge,
That mourn'd 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 outwatch'd each star,
And morning came-and still thou wert afar.
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 hail'd and blest the mast
That met my sight-it near'd-Alas! it past!
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
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!" (1)
(1) [Lord Byron has made a fine use of the gentleness and submission of the females of these regions, as contrasted with the lordly pride and martial ferocity of the men: and though we suspect he has lent them more soul than of right belongs to them, as well as more delicacy and reflection; yet, there is something so true to female nature in general, in his representations of this sort, and so much of the oriental softness and acquiescence in his particular delineations, that it is scarcely possible to refuse the picture the praise of being characteristic and harmonious, as well as eminently sweet and beautiful in itself. — JEFFREY.]
"Yea, strange indeed that heart hath long been
Worm-like 'twas trampled-adder-like avenged,
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love,
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:
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.
This hour-it cannot be—this hour away!
Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd 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
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
The feast these hands delighted to prepare ;
Light toil to cull and dress thy frugal fare!
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best,
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd
At such as seem'd 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:
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 trimm'd, 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. (1)
Why-thou wert worse than he who broke his vow
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now;
Or even that traitor chief- I've seen thee smile,
When the clear sky show'd 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-1
-for-he came again!"
"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!
(1) Orlando Furioso, Canto x.
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,
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 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!
And tottering to the couch his bride he borc,
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 what he would not survey,
His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep,
That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep: And she the dim and melancholy star,
Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar,
(1) [We do not know any thing in poetry more beautiful or touching than this picture of their parting. - JEFFREY.]
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