CANTO THE THIRD.

"Come vedi-ancor non m'abbandona."
DANTE, Inferno, v. 105.

I.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,1
Along Morea's hills the setting Sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!

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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,2
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
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled met his mellowing glance,

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1. The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem [The Curse of Minerva]; but they were written on the spot, in the Spring of 1811, and-I scarce know why-the reader must excuse their appearance here-if he can. [See letter to Murray, October 23, 1812.]

2. [See Curse of Minerva, line 7, Poetical Works, 1898, i. 457. For Hydra, see A. L. Castellan's Lettres sur la Morée, 1820, i. 155176. He gives (p. 174) a striking description of a sunrise off the Cape of Sunium.]

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's1 latest day! 1190
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill—
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonising 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!

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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

1. Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.

2. The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country: the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration.

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Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide;
The cypress saddening by the sacred Mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk ;1
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 Ægean, 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,

Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown-where gentler Ocean seems to smile.

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II.

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 !

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1. The Kiosk is a Turkish summer house: the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree, the wall intervenes.-Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.

[E. Dodwell (Classical Tour, 1819, i. 371) speaks of "a magnificent palm tree, which shoots among the ruins of the Ptolemaion," a short distance to the east of the Theseion. There is an illustration in its honour. The Theseion-which was "within five minutes' walk" of Byron's lodgings (Travels in Albania, 1858, i. 259)-contains the remains of the scholar, John Tweddell, died 1793, 46 over which a stone was placed, owing to the exertions of Lord Byron (Clarke's Travels, Part II. sect. i. p. 534). When Byron died, Colonel Stanhope proposed, and the chief Odysseus decreed, that he should be buried in the same spot.-Life, p. 640.]

Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain,

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain-1
Would that with freedom it were thine again!

III.

The Sun hath sunk—and, darker than the night,
Sinks with its 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 passed
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:
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, each appeared to wait

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:

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1. [After the battle of Salamis, B.C. 480, Paros fell under the dominion of Athens.]

VOL. III.

T

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

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So throbbed each vein-each thought-till then withstood;

Her own dark soul-these words at once subdued: 1280
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 cheek 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;

i. They gather round and each his aid supplies.—[MS.]