XIV.

"Corsair! thy doom is named-but I have power To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.

Thee would I spare-nay, more—would save thee now,
But this time-hope-nor even thy strength allow;
But all I can, I will: at least, delay

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.
More now were ruin-even thyself were loth
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both."

"Yes!-loth indeed :-my soul is nerved to all,
Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall:
Tempt not thyself with peril, me with hope
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope:
Unfit to vanquish-shall I meanly fly,

The one of all my band that would not die?
Yet there is one-to whom my memory clings,
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs.
My sole resources in the path I trod

Were these my bark, my sword, my love, my God!
The last I left in youth-he leaves me now-

And man but works his will to lay me low.

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer
Wrung from the coward-crouching of despair:
It is enough-I breathe—and I can bear.
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand
That might have better kept so true a brand;
My bark is sunk or captive; but my love—
For her in sooth my voice would mount above.
Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind-
And this will break a heart so more than kind,
And blight a, form-till thine appear'd, Gulnare!
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair."

"Thou lov'st another then?-but what to me
Is this 't is nothing-nothing e'er can be:
But yet-thou lov'st--and--oh! I envy those
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose;
Who never feel the void-the wandering thought
That sighs o'er visions-such as mine hath wrought."

"Lady, methought thy love was his, for whom. This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb."

My love stern Seyd's! Oh-no-no-not my love : Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove

To meet his passion—but it would not be:

I felt I feel-love dwells with-with the free.

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,
And hide from one-perhaps another there.
He takes the band I give not, nor withhold—
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! 't is 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 gein hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain?

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain,

That starts at once-bright-pure-from pity's mine, Already polish'd by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear-
In woman's eye the unanswerable 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-but heaven!
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe!

XVI.

'T is 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!

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!

14

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 15 latest day!
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 seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before;
But, ere he sunk 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 lived and died, as none can live or die!

16

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,
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.

17

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,

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle,

That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile.

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?

XII.

None are all evil-quickening round his heart,
One softer feeling would not yet depart;
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled
By passions worthy of a fool or child;
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,
And even in him it asks the name of love!
Yes, it was love-unchangeable-unchanged,
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;
Though fairest captives daily met his eye,
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by;
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower,
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.
Yes-it was love—if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet-Oh more than all!—untired by time;
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,
Could render sullen, were she near to smile;
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent;
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove-
If there be love in mortals-this was love!
He was a villain-ay-reproaches shower
On him--but not the passion, nor its power,
Which only proved, all other virtues gone,
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one.

XIII.

He paused a moment-till his hastening men
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen.
"Strange tidings!--many a peril have I past,
Nor know I why this next appears the last!
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,
Nor shall my followers find me falter here.
'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate;
And, if my plan but hold, and fortune smile,
We 'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile.
Ay-let them slumber-peaceful be their dreams!
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!)
To warm these slow avengers of the seas.
Now to Medora-Oh! my sinking heart,
Long may her own be lighter than thou art!