'Gulnare-Gulnare-I never felt till now
My abject fortune, wither'd 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,
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!'
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-
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. [o'er-
The guards are gain'd-one moment all were
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.'
She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply,
But his glance follow'd 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 fetter'd limbs allow, pursued.
"Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where
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
Full on his brow, as if from morning air;
He reach'd an open gallery-on his eye
Gleam'd 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
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more.
With hasty step a figure outward pass'd,
Then paused-and turn'd-and paused-'tis
She at last!
No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill
As if she late had bent her leaning head
Above some object of her doubt or dread.
They meet-upon her brow-unknown- for-
got-
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!
He had seen battle-he had brooded lone
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt fore-
shown:
[chain
He had been tempted,-chasten'd,-and the
Yet on his arms might ever there remain ;
But ne'er from strife, captivity, remorse-
From all his feelings in their inmost force-
So thrill'd, so shudder'd every creeping vein,
As now they froze before that purple stain.
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak,
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek!
Blood he had view'd-could view unmov'd-but
then
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men!
'Tis done-he nearly waked-but it is done. Corsair! he perish'd-thou art dearly won. All words would now be vain-away--away Our bark is tossing -'tis already day. The few gain'd 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 clapp'd her hands-and through the gallery [Moor;
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals-Greek and
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,
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight.
No words are utter'd-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, obey'd,
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd;
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed.
Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew-.
How much had Conrad's memory to review !
Thanks to that softening heart, she could not Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully.
She stopp'd-threw back her dark far-floating
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair,
Where last he anchor'd rear'd 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 frown'd above the mast,
He veil'd his face; and sorrow'd as he pass'd;
He thought of all-Gonsalvo and his band,
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand;
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride :
He turn'd and saw-Gulnare, the homicide!
And her, at once above-beneath her sex,
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex.
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 resign'd the rest.
She watch'd his features till she could not bear Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill,
Their freezing aspect and averted air,
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye,
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry.
She knelt beside him, and his hand she press'd,
Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest;
But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou?
Reproach me-but not yet--O! spare me now!
I am not what I seem-this fearful night
My brain bewilder'd-do not madden quite !
If I had never loved-though less my guilt,
Thou hadst not lived to-hate me-if thou wilt.
She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself
upbraid
[made:
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he
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,
A spot--a mast-a sail-an armed deck!
Their little bark her men of watch descry,
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high;
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier;
A flash is seen-the ball beyond their bow
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below.
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance,
A long, long absent gladness in his glance :--
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,
The worst of crimes had left her woman still.
This Conrad mark'd, 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!
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave,
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he
Who now seem'd 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 stain'd it from the dead!
He took that hand--it trembled-now too late-
So soft in love, so wildly nerved in hate;
He clasp'd that hand-it trembled --and his own
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone.
'Gulnare!'-but she replied not-‘dear Gulnare"
She raised her eye--her only answer there-
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.
"Tis mine-my blood-red flag! again-again-Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast,
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,
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet,
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand,
And feels he yet can conquer and command!
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest.
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this.
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith-
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath,
Tolips-whose broken sighs such fragrance fling,
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing!
These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow;
They sail'd 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,
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare;
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;
[shriek,
Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak!
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice
gleams,
[beams.
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the
Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled
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 fail'd,
Nor now perchance extinguish'd, only veil'd.
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 reach'd his turret door-he paused-no sound
Broke from within; and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly-footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;
He knock'd, 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 essay'd,
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd;
He snatch'd the lamp-its light will answer all-
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.
He would not wait for that reviving ray-
As soon could he have linger'd there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor,
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold !
XX.
He turn'd not-spoke not-sunk not-fix'd his
look,
These-and the pale pure cheek, became the bier
But she is nothing-wherefore is he here?
He ask'd no question—all were answer'd now
By the first glance on that still, marble brow.
It was enough-she died-what reck'd 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
The proud, the wayward, who have fix'd below
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.
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest
The indistinctness of the suffering breast;
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one,
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ·
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
And Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lull'd 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 confess'd without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flow'd-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.
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!
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!
In life itself she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd,*
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veil'd-thought shrinks from all that lurk'd His heart was form'd for softness-warp'd to
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure-as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot-like that had harden'd too;
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips-Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd,
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,
And wish'd 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;
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the
rock;
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock.
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,
Though dark the shade-it shelter'd-saved till
In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both, Dodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place The Granite's firmness and the Lily's growth:
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell;
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!
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 perish'd his despair!
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn
beside;
'Tis morn-to venture on his lonely hour
Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his And fair the monument they gave his bride:
He was not there—nor seen along the shore;
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er :
Another morn-another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ;
Mount, grotto, cavern, valley search'd in vain,
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain ;
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,
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes
See Notes at the end of this volume
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
THE Serfs are glad through Lara's wide do- But long enough to leave him half undone.
The chief of Lara is return'd again :
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?|
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself;-that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!—
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment,
then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
The reader is apprised that the name of Lara being Spanish, and no circumstance of local or national description fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the word Serf,' which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of our fictitious chieftain Lord Byron meant Lara for a chief of the
And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
Yet doth he live!' exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file,
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.
He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need not
guess;
[o'er,
They more might marvel, when the greeting's
Not that he came, but came not long before:
No train is his beyond a single page,
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
To those that wander as to those that stay ;
But lack of tidings from another clime
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognize, yet almost deem The present dubious, or the past a dream.
He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time;
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot,
Might be untaught him by his varied lot;
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame :
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course,
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse.
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain,
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain:
Around him some mysterious circle thrown
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone;
Upon his eye sate something of reproof,
That kept at least frivolity aloof;
And things more timid that beheld him near,
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear;
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd
They deem'd him better than his air express'd.
'Twas strange-in youth all action and all life, Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; Woman-the field-the ocean-all that gave
And they indeed were changed-'tis quickly Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been :
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last,
And spake of passions, but of passion past;
The pride, but not the fire, of early days,
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise;
A high demeanour, and a glance that took
Their thoughts from others by a single look ;
And that sarcastic levity of tongue,
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,
That darts in seeming playfulness around,
And makes those feel that will not own the
wound:
[neath
All these seem'd his, and something more be-
Than glance could well reveal, or
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim,
That some can conquer, and that all would
claim,
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive,
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive;
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace
At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face.
Not much he loved long question of the past,
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast,
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone,
And-as himself would have it seem-unknown:
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan,
Nor glean experience from his fellow-man;
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show,
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know;
If still more prying such inquiry grew,
In turn he tried-he ransack'd all below,
And found his recompense in joy or woe,
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sough
In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements had raised:
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high,
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme,
How woke he from the wildness of that dream?
Alas! he told not ;-but he did awake
To curse the wither'd heart that would not
break.
Books, for his volume heretofore was Man,
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan,
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day,
From all communion he would start away:
And then, his rarely call'd attendants said,
Through night's long hours would sound his
hurried tread
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd
In rude but antique portraiture around:
They heard, but whisper'd-that must not be
known-
The sound of words less earthly than his own.
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had
They scarce knew what, but more than should
have been.
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head
Which hands profane had gather'd from the
dead,
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. That still beside his open'd volume lay,
Not unrejoiced to see him once again,
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men;
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command,
He mingled with the magnates of his land;
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay,
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away;
But still he only saw, and did not share
The common pleasure or the general care;
He did not follow what they all pursued,
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd;
As if to startle all save him away?
Why slept he not when others were at rest?
Why heard no music, and received no guest?
All was not well, they deem'd; but where the
wrong?
Some knew perchance-but 'twere a tale too long;
And such besides were too discreetly wise,
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; But if they would-they could' -around the board,
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord.
|