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Whose scattered streams from granite basins burst, Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst; From crag to cliff they mount-Near yonder cave, What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 130 In pensive posture leaning on the brand, Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? " "Tis he—'tis Conrad-here-as wont--alone; “ On Juan! on--and make our purpose known. ~ The bark he views—and tell him we would greet “ His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : “We dare not yet approach-thou know'st his mood, “When strange or uninvited steps intrude.”



Him Juan sought, and told of their intent-
He spake not-but a sign express'd assent.
These Juan calls--they come to their salute
He bends bim slightly, but his lips are mute.



“ These letters, Chief, are from the Greek-the spy, • Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh: “ Whate'er his tidings, we can well report, “ Much that”-" Peace, peace!"-He cuts their

prating short. Wondering they turn, abashed, while each to each Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : They watch his glance with many a stealing look, To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 150 But, this as if he guessed, with head aside, Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, He read the scroll My tablets, Juan, hark“ Where is Gonsalvo ?"

6. In the anchored bark." “ There let him stay—to him this order bear. “ Back to your duty-for my course preparc:

Myself this enterprize to-night will share."

“ To-night, Lord Conrad?"

“Ay! at set of sun : 160 “ The breeze will freshen when the day is done.

My corslet-cloak—one hour-and we are gone.

Sling on thy bugle-see that free from rust, “ My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust; “Be the edge sharpened of my boarding-brand, “And give it's guard more room to fit my hand. “ This let the Armourer with speed dispose ; “ Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : “ Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, “ To tell us when the hour of stay's expired.” 170


They make obeisance, and retire in haste,
Too soon to seek again the watery waste :
Yet they repine not-so that Conrad guides,
And who dare question aught that he decides ?

That man of loneliness and mystery,
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ;
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ;
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 181
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ?
What should it be? that thus their faith can bind?
The power of Thought—the magic of the Mind!
Linked with success, assumed and kept with skill,
That moulds another's weakness to it's will ;
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.
Such hath it been--shall be beneath the sun
The many still must labour for the one! 190
'Tis Nature's doom-but let the wretch who toils,
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils.

Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains,
How light the balance of his humbler pains !


Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face,
In Conrad's form seems little to admire,
Though his dark eye-brow shades a glance of fire:
Robust but not Herculean-to the sight
No giant frame sets forth his common height; 200
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men;
They gaze and marvel how—and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale
The sable curls in wild profusion veil ;
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.

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