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 below-
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,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;
These and the pale pure cheek, became the bier-
But 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 miteBut who in patience parts with all delight? Full inany 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,
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lulled 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 confessed without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been :
Nor long they flowed-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!
His heart was formed for softness-warped to wrong;
Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure-as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot; like that had hardened too ;
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed,
But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock ;
If such his heart, so shattered it the shock.
There grew one flower bencath its rugged brow,
Though dark the shade-it sheltered-saved till now.
The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both,
The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth:
The gentle plant bath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and withered where it fell,
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shivered fragments on the barren ground!
-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, alarmed, their isle is traversed o'er :
Another morn-another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount-grotto-cavern-valley searched 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 perished his despair!
Long mourned 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,
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. "
THE time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole of the AEgean 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 75, line 21.
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.
Note 2, page 79, line 29.
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 lightuing from the water.
Note 3, page 82, line 11.
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice.
Note 4, page 82, line 13.
The long chibouque's dissolving cloud display.
Note 5, page 82, line 14.
While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. Dancing-girls.
Note to Canto II, page 82, line 29.
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
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