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Lose in that one their all-perchance a mite-
But who in patience parts with all delight?
Full many a stoic and
eye 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.

XXII.

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,
For 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!

XXIII.

His heart was form'd for softness-warp'd to wrong;
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;

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd,
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 now.
The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both,
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!

XXIV.

'Tis morn-to venture on his lonely hour

Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower.
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:

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;

And fair the monument they gave his bride:
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. (17)

NOTES TO THE CORSAIR.

THE time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole of the Ægean isles are within a few hours sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it.

Note 1, page 26, last line.

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.

Orlando, Canto 10.

Note 2, page 32, line 19.

Around the waves' phosphoric brightness broke. By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water.

Coffee.

Pipe.

Note 3, page 36, line 20.

Though to the rest the sober berry's juice.

Note 4, page 36, line 22.

The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply.

Note 5, page 36, line 23.

While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy.

Dancing-girls.

Note to Canto II. page 37, line 13.

It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy is out of nature.-Perhaps so. I find something not unlike it in history.

"Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be rejected as an improbable fiction; but it is a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero." Gibbon, D. and F. Vol. VI. p. 180.

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature I shall attempt to prove by some historical coincidences which I have met with since writing "The Corsair.”

"Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfermoit dans un silence menaçant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor à sa profonde indignation.-De toutes partes cependant les soldats et les peuples accouroient ; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts.

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"Eccelin etoit d'une petite taille; mais tout l'aspect de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens indiquoient un soldat.— Son langage etoit amer, son deportment superbe-et par son seul egard, il faisoit trembler les plus hardis." Sismondi, tome III. page 219, 220.

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