blest!

I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best,
To share his splendour, and seem very
Oft must my soul the question undergo,
Of-Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, 'No!'
Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ;
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear,

nor withhold

And hide from one perhaps another there.
He takes the hand I give not
Its pulse nor check'd-
nor quicken'd -- calmly cold:
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight
From one I never loved enough to hate.
No warmth these lips return by his imprest,
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest.
Yes-had I ever proved that passion's zeal,
The change to hatred were at least to feel:
But still he goes unmourn'd· returns unsought –
And oft when present absent from my thought.

Or when reflection comes, and come it must

I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust;
I am his slave but, in despite of pride,

'T were worse than bondage to become his bride.
Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!
Or seek another and give mine release,

But yesterday I could have said, to peace!
Yes -- if unwonted fondness now I feign,
Remember-captive! 'tis to break thy chain;
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;
To give thee back to all endear'd below,
Who share such love as I can never know.

Farewell- morn breaks —— and I must now away :
'T will cost me dear - but dread no death to-day!"

XV.

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart,
And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart,
And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.
And was she here? and is he now alone?

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain?
The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain,

That starts at once — bright
Already polish'd by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear-
In woman's eye the answerable tear!

That weapon of her weakness she can wield,
To save, subdue at once her spear and shield:
Avoid it-- Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.
Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven,
By this how many lose not earth
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe,
And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe!

--

-

XVI.

but heaven!

'Tis morn and o'er his alter'd features play
The beams without the hope of yesterday.
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing:
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt,

While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,
Chill wet- and misty round each stiffen'd limb
Refreshing earth-reviving all but him! -

VOL. III.

THE CORSAIR.

CANTO THE THIRD.

"Come vedi-ancor non m'abbandona."

I.

DANTE.

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 hush'd 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
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd 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 look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,

That closed their murder'd 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 nountain's once delightful dyes:

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

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before,
But ere he sank below Citharon's head,

--

The cup of woe was quaff'd - the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly –
Who liv'd 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 scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,(2)
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 pass'd 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,
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle,

That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile.( )

Not now my theme

II.

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!

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

(2) 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.

(3) The opening lines as far as section II. have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem; but they were written or the spot in the spring of 1811, and-I scarce know why-the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can.

Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain,
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain-
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 return'd, 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 pass'd
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast;
Sadly she sate on high- Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away:
She saw not - felt not this nor dared depart,
Nor deem'd it cold her chill was at her heart;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense-
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense!

It came at last. a sad and shatter'd boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding
Scarce knew they how escaped

- all most wretched these the few

- this all they knew.

In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate :
Something they would have said; but seem'd to fear
To trust their accents to Medora's ear.

-

-

-wept

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 deem'd not till they found their energy. While yet was Hope flutter'd they soften'd 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.