SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze, of living light!
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
The glorious gulph, unconquered Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,
When-Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last.
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frowned before,
But ere he sunk below Citharon's head,
The cup of woe was quaffed-the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly-
Who lived and died, as none can live or die!
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.'
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret :
The groves
of olive scattered dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,13
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye-
And dull were his that passed them heedless by.
Again the Egean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown-where gentler Ocean seems to smile.14
Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts to thee?
Oh! who can look along thy native sea,
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale,
So much its magic must o'er all prevail?
Who that beheld that sun upon thee set,
Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget?
Not he-whose heart nor time nor distance frees,
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades!
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain,
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain—
Would that with freedom it where thine again!
The sun hath sunk—and, darker than the night,
Sinks with his beam upon the beacon height-
Medora's heart-the third day's come and gone—
With it he comes not-sends not-faithless one!
The wind was fair though light, and storms were none.
Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, and yet
His only tidings that they had not met!
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale
Had Conrad waited for that single sail.
The night-breeze freshens-she that day had past
In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast;
Sadly she sate-on high-Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wandered heedless of the spray
That dashed her garments oft, and warned away a
She saw not-felt not this-nor dared depart,
Nor deemed it cold-her chill was at her heart;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense—
His
very sight had shocked from life or sense!
It came at last—a sad and shattered boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding-all most wretched-these the few—
Scarce knew they how escaped-this all they knew.
In silence, darkling, cach appeared to wait
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate :
Something they would have said; but seemed to fear
To trust their accents to Medora's ear.
She saw at once, yet sunk not-trembled not—
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot—
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,
That deemed not till they found their energy.
While yet was Hope-they softened-fluttered-wept-
All lost-that softness died not-but it slept;
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,
« With nothing left to love—there's nought to dread. »
Tis more than nature's; like the burning might
Delirium gathers from the fever's height.
« Silent you stand-nor would I hear you tell
What-speak not-breathe not-for I know it well"Yet would I ask-almost my lip denies
« The—quick your answer-tell me where he lies?
Lady! we know not-scarce with life we fled; «But here is one denies that he is dead :
"He saw him bound, and bleeding-but alive. »>
She heard no further-'twas in vain to strive
So throbbed each vein-each thought-till then withstood;
Her own dark soul-these words at once subdued—
She totters-falls-and senseless had the wave
Perchance but snatched her from another grave;
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies :
Dash o'er her deathlike check the Ocean dew,
Raise—fan—sustain—till life returns anew;
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report
The tale too tedious—when the triumph short.
In that wild council words waxed warm and strange,
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge;
All, save repose or flight-still lingering there
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair;
Whate'er his fate-the breasts he formed and led,
Will save him living, or appease him dead.
Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few,
Whose deeds are daring as their hearts are true.
Within the Haram's secret chamber sate
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate;
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell,
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell;
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined
Surveys his brow-would soothe his gloom of mind,
While many an anxious glance her large dark eye
Sends in its idle search for sympathy,
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, 15
But inly views his victim as he bleeds.
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