With no distracting world to call her off
From love; with no society to scoff

At the new transient flame; no babbling crowd
Of coxcombry in admiration loud,

Or with adulterous whisper to alloy

Her duty, and her glory, and her joy ;
With faith and feelings naked as her form,
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm,
Changing its hues with bright variety,
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky,
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move,
The cloud-compelling harbinger of Love.

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore,
They passed the Tropic's red meridian o'er;
Nor long the hours-they never paused o'er time
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime,
Which deals the daily pittance of our span,
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man.
What deemed they of the future or the past?
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast:
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide,
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide;
Their clock, the sun, in his unbounded tower;
They reckoned not, whose day was but an hour;
The nightingale, their only vesper bell,
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell;
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep,
As in the North he mellows o'er the deep,
But fiery, full and fierce, as if he left

The world for ever, earth of light bereft,
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave,
As dives a hero headlong to his grave.
Then rose they, looking first along the skies,
And then for light into each other's eyes,
Wondering that summer showed so brief a sun,
And asking if indeed the day were done?

The voluptuous indolence of the lovers is interrupted by the hoarse sound of a seaman's voice. This is Ben Bunting, one of the mountaineers, who comes to seek Torquil, to impart to him the ill news

that a ship has been seen in the offing. After a short apostrophe to tobacco, of which, after investigating its varied shapes, Lord Byron prefers its naked beauties—a cigar,' the figure of this sailor is described, and has given a subject to the very spirited engraving which is inserted here:

Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim,

His constant pipe, which never yet burned dim,
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait,
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state;
But then a sort of kerchief round his head,
Not ever tightly bound, nor nicely spread :
And stead of trowsers (ah! too early torn!
For even the mildest woods will have their thorn)
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat
Now served for inexpressibles and hat;
His naked feet and neck, and sun-burnt face,
Perchance might suit alike with either race.
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth,
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both;
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad,
And somewhat stooped by his marine abode,
But brawny as the boar's; and hung beneath,
His cutlass drooped, unconscious of a sheath,
Or lost or worn away; his pistols were
Linked to his belt, a matrimonial pair-
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff,
Though one missed fire, the other would go off)-
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust,
Completed his accoutrements, as Night

Surveyed him in his garb heteroclite.

Torquil hears his news with dismay, not because he fears the fate which he may have to endure, but because it brings with it the necessity of being separated from his loved and loving Neuha.

The resistance which Christian and his comrades make against the pursuing crew of the ship is short and vain: the few who are bet either killed or taken retreat to a rock, where they stand thus:

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest,

Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest.

The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread
Along his cheek was livid now as lead;
His light brown locks so graceful in their flow
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow.
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest

To stige even the breath within his breast,
Fast by the rock, all menacing but mute,
He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot,
Which deepened now and then the sandy dint
Beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to flint.
Some paces further Torquil leaned his head
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled,—
Not mortally-his worst wound was within:
sunken in,
His brow was pale, his blue eyes

And blood-drops sprinkled o'er his yellow hair
Showed that his faintness came not from despair,
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another,
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother,
Ben Bunting, who essayed to wash, and wipe,
And bind his wound-then calmly lit his pipe,
A trophy which survived a hundred fights,

A beacon which had cheered ten thousand nighis.

Still the noise of the pursuit nears, and at this moment two canoes appear. Neuha is with them: she places Torquil in one; Christian, with the other survivors, enters the other; and they row away with the utmost rapidity, followed by the ship's boats. For the purpose of diverting the pursuers, the two canoes take separate courses. Neuha rows to a large rock, where to land was impossible--and where the hope of escape seemed to be cut off. While Torquil is beginning to despair, Neuha plunges into the water, and bids him follow her:

They rested on their paddles, and uprose

Neuha, and, pointing to the approaching foes,
Cried, Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow!'
Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow.
There was no time to pause-the foes were near-
Chains in his eye and menace in his ear;
With vigour they pulled on, and, as they came,
Hailed him to yield, and by his forfeit name.

Headlong he leapt to him the swimmer's skill
Was native, and now all his hope from ill;

But how or where? He dived, and rose no more;
The boat's crew looked amazed o'er shore and shore.
There was no landing on that precipice,
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice.
They watched awhile to see him float again,
But not a trace rebubbled from the main :
The wave rolled on, no ripple on its face,
Since their first plunge recalled a single trace;
The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam,
That whitened o'er what seemed their latest home,
White as a sepulchre above the pair

Who left no marble (mournful as an heir);

The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide

Was all that told of Torquil and his bride;

And but for this alone the whole might seem
The vanished phantom of a seaman's dream.

They paused and searched in vain, then pulled away,
Even Superstition now forbade their stay.
Some said he had not plunged into the wave,
But vanished like a corpse-light from a grave;
Others, that something supernatural

Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ;
While all agreed that in his cheek and eye
There was the dead hue of eternity.
Still as their oars receded from the crag,
Round every weed a moment would they lag,
Expectant of some token of their prey;

But no-he had melted from them like the spray.

Within this rock was a cavern, the existence of which was a secret to all but Neuha. After diving for a short time, she and her lover, who followed her, rose on the other side, and found a safe and convenient asylum in the rocky cavern.

Christian was, in the mean time, followed by the sailors, who had been baffled in their hope of taking Torquil. The mutineers land on a rugged rock, and sell their lives dearly: they are all killed, but not before many of their assailants have fallen. The manner of Christian's death is a vigorous picture :

Christian died last-twice wounded; and once more
Mercy was offered when they saw his gore;
Too late for life, but not too late to die,
With though a hostile hand to close his eye.
A limb was broken, and he drooped along
The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young.
The sound revived him, or appeared to wake
Some passion which a weakly gesture spake;
He beckoned to the foremost who drew nigh,
But, as they neared, he reared his weapon high-
His last ball had been aimed, but from his breast
He tore the topmost button of his vest.

Down the tube dashed it, levelled, fired, and smiled
As his foe fell; then, like a serpent, coiled
His wounded, weary form, to where the steep
Looked desperate as himself along the deep;

Cast one glance back, and clenched his hand, and shook
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook;
Then plunged the rock below received like glass
His body crushed into one gory mass,

With scarce a shred to tell of human form,

Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm;

A fair-haired scalp, besmeared with blood and weeds,
Yet reeked, the remnant of himself and deeds;
Some splinters of his weapons (to the last,
As long as hand could hold, he held them fast)
Yet glittered, but at distance-hurled away
To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray.
The rest was nothing-save a life mispent,
And soul-but who shall answer where it went?
'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead.

Neuha keeps her lover in safety in the cavern until the ship has left the shore; when she returns him to her wondering countrymen, who, to honour her courage and devotion, call the cavern Neuha's Cave' to this day.

The general character of this poem is, that it is more tame-that it contains more of a quiet beauty, but not perhaps, therefore, less of beauty-than most of his previous publications. It was certainly a subject which pleased himself; and, although there is not great care