To the fond workings of a woman's mind?
And must I say?-albeit my heart rebel
With all that woman feels, but should not tell-Oh!
Because-despite thy crimes-that heart is
[-loved.

How much had Conrad's memory to review !

Canks to that softening heart, she could not Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape kill !'

He thought of all--Gonsalvo and his band,
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand;
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride:
He turn'd and saw-Gulnare, the homicide!

XIV.

And her, at once above-beneath her sex,
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex.
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye,
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by;
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast,
Which-Conrad safe-to fate resign'd the rest.

She watch'd his features till she could not bear Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fi,
Their freezing aspect and averted air,

And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye,
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry.
She knelt beside him, and his hand she press'd,
'Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest;
But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou?
Reproach me-but not yet--O! spare me now!
I am not what I seem-this fearful night
My brain bewilder'd-do not madden quite !
If I had never loved-though less my guilt,
Thou hadst not lived to-hate me-if thou wilt.

XV.

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself
upbraid
[made:
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest,
They bleed within that silent cell-his breast.
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge,
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge;
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck,
A spota mast-a sail-an armed deck!
Their little bark her men of watch descry,
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high;
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier;
A flash is seen-the ball beyond their bow
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below.
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance,
A long, long absent gladness in his glance :--
"Tis mine-my blood-red flag! again-again-
I am not all deserted on the main!'
They own the signal, answer to the hail,
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail.
'Tis Conrad! Conrad!' shouting from the deck,
Command nor duty could their transport check!
With light alacrity and gaze of pride,

They view him mount once more his vessel's side;
A smile relaxing in each rugged face,
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace.
He, half forgetting danger and defeat,
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet,
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand,
And feels he yet can conquer and command!

XVI.

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow;
They sail'd prepared for vengeance-had they
known

A woman's hand secured that deed her own,
She were their queen-less scrupulous are they
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way.
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare,
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare;

Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,
The worst of crimes had left her woman still.

XVII.

This Conrad mark'd, and felt-ah! could h
less?

Hate of that deed-but grief for her distress;
What she has done no tears can wash away,
And Heaven must punish on its angry day:
But it was done : he knew, whate'er her gui!
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spa,
And he was free!--and she for him had giver
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance

gave,

Who now seem'd changed and humbled, far:
and meek,

But varying oft the colour of her cheek
To deeper shades of paleness-all its red
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the des!

He took that hand--it trembled-now too late -
So soft in love, so wildly nerved in hate;
He clasp'd that hand-it trembled--and his c
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone.
'Gulnare!--but she replied not-‘dear Gulnare
She raised her eye--her only answer there-
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace
If he had driven her from that resting-place,
His had been more or less than mortal heart,
But-good or ill-it bade her not depart.
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast,
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest.
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss
That ask'd from form so fair no more than “

The first, the last that Frailty stole from Fa.
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his bre
Tolips-whose broken sighs such fragrance #:
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing

XVIII.

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely ise
To them the very rocks appear to smile;
The haven hums with many a cheering soKT"
The beacons blaze their wonted stations rO
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay,
And sportive dolphins bend them through
spray;

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discc.
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak
Beneath each lamp that through its l
gleams,

Their fancy paints the friends that trum
Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's trot? »
foam !

XIX.

The lights are high on beacon and from bower,

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:
He looks in vain-'tis strange-and all remark,
Amid so many, hers alone is dark.

Tis strange-of yore its welcome never fail'd,
Nor now perchance extinguish'd, only veil'd.
With the first boat descends he for the shore,
And looks impatient on the lingering oar.
Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,
To bear him like an arrow to that height!
With the first pause the resting rowers gave,
He waits not, looks not-leaps into the wave,
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach,
and high

Ascends the path familiar to his eye.

Hereach'd his turret door-he paused-no sound
Broke from within; and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly-footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;
He knock'd, but faintly-for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens-'tis a well-known face-
But not the form he panted to embrace.
I's lips are silent-twice his own essay'd,
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd;
He snatch'd the lamp-its light will answer
it quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.
He would not wait for that reviving ray-
As soon could he have linger'd there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor,
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold!

XX.

By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest
The indistinctness of the suffering breast;
all-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,
And Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lull'd 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 confess'd without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flow'd-he dried them to depart,
The sun goes forth-but Conrad's day is dim;
In helpless-hopeless-brokenness of heart:
And the night cometh-ne'er to pass from him.
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind,

He turn'd not-spoke not-sunk not-fix'd his
look,

And set the anxious frame that lately shook:
He gazed-how long we gaze despite of pain,
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain!

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!

In life itself she was so still and fair, That death with gentler aspect wither'd there; And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd, that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, nd made it almost moekery yet to weep: The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, ad veil'd-thought shrinks from all that lurk'd His heart was form'd for softness-warp'd to below-

bo'er the eye Death most exerts his might, And burls the spirit from her throne of light! nks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,

wrong;

XXIII.

Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure-as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot-like that had harden'd too;

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips-Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd,

es, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,

i wish'd repose-but only for a while; it the white shroud, and each extended tress, ong-fair-but spread in utter lifelessness, hich, late the sport of every summer wind, caped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;

But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the
rock;

If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock.
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,
Though dark the shade-it shelter'd-saved till

now.

In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both, % of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place The Granite's firmness and the Lily's growth:

segay.

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell;
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!

XXIV.

'Tis morn-to venture on his lonely hour

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 perish'd his despair!
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn
beside;

Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his And fair the monument they gave his bride:

tower.

He was not there-nor seen along the shore ;
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er :
Another morn-another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount, grotto, cavern, valley search'd in vain,
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain;

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,
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes *

• See Notes at the end of this volume.

LARA.

T.

CANTO THE FIRST.

THE Serfs are glad through Lara's wide do

main,*

And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord,
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored :
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted faggot's hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all

mirth.

II.

The chief of Lara is return'd again :
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself;-that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!-
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment,
then

Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;

Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.

And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride.
The young forgot him, and the old had died:
?| Yet doth he live!' exclaims the impatient her,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file.
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.

IV.

He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need
guess;

They more might marvel, when the greening Not that he came, but came not long before The reader is apprised that the name of Lara being No train is his beyond a single page, Spanish, and no circumstance of local or national description Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away word Serf,' which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has To those that wander as to those that stay: nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of our But lack of tidings from another clime fictitious chieftain Lord Byron meant Lara for a chief of the Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.

Morea.