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!
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?
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.
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,
Ascends the path familiar to his eye.
He reached his turret door-he paused-no sound
Broke from within; and all was night around.
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.
He would not wait for that reviving ray
As soon could he have lingered there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore,
Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold!
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!
In life itself she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect withered there;
And the cold flowers 16 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
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,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips-
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore 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, 1790
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind 1;
These-and the pale pure cheek, became the bierBut she is nothing-wherefore is he here?
He asked no question-all were answered now
By the first glance on that still-marble brow.
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
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;
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