Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,
That deem'd not till they found their energy.
While yet was Hope-they soften'd-flutter'd-
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 naught 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 wellYet 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-
So throbb'd each vein-each thought-till then with-
stood;

Her own dark soul-these words at once subdued:
She totters-falls-and senseless had the wave
Perchance but snatch'd 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;
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report

The tale too tedious-when the triumph short.

IV.

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange,
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge;
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair;
Whate'er his fate--the breasts he form'd and led,
Will save him living, or appease him dead.
Wo to his foes! there yet survive a few,
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true.

V.

Within the Harem's secret chamber sate1
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate;
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell,
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell;
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined
Surveys his brow--would soothe his gloom of mind;
While many an anxious glance her large dark eye
Sends in its idle search for sympathy,
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,
But inly views his victim as he bleeds.

"Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest
Sits Triumph-Conrad taken-fall'n the rest!
His doom is fix'd-he dies: and well his fate
Was earn'd-yet much too worthless for thy hate:
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard-
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord!

[The whole of this section was added in the course of printing.]

"His capture could!—and shall I then resign
One day to him-the wretch already mine?
Release my foe !—at whose remonstrance?-thine!
Fair suitor!-to thy virtuous gratitude,
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood,
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare,
No doubt-regardless if the prize were fair,
My thanks and praise alike are due-now hear!
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear:

I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard.
Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai—
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly?
Thou need'st not answer-thy confession speaks,
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks;
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware:
'Tis not his life alone may claim such care!
Another word and-nay-I need no more.
Accursed was the moment when he bore
Thee from the flames, which better far-but-no-
I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo-
Now 'tis thy lord that warns-deceitful thing!
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing?
In words alone I am not wont to chafe :
Look to thyself-nor deem thy falsehood safe!"

He rose-and slowly, sternly thence withdrew,
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu :
Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood-
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued;
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare!
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare.
His doubts appear'd to wrong-nor yet she knew
How deep the root from whence compassion grew-
She was a slave-from such may captives claim
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name;
Still half unconscious-heedless of his wrath,
Again she ventured on the dangerous path,
Again his rage repell'd-until arose

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes!

The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are in number ninety-nine.

VI.

Meanwhile-long anxious-weary-still-the same Rell'd day and night-his soul could never tameThis fearful interval of doubt and dread,

When every hour might doom him worse than dead,
When
every step that echo'd by the gate

Might entering lead where axe and stake await;
When every voice that grated on his ear
Might be the last that he could ever hear;
Could terror tame-that spirit stern and high
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ;

Twas worn-perhaps decay'd-yet silent bore
That conflict, deadlier far than all before:
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale,

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail;
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude,
To pine, the prey of every changing mood;
To gaze on thine own heart; and meditate
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate-

Too late the last to shun-the first to mend-
To count the hours that struggle to thine end,
With not a friend to animate, and tell

To other ears that death became thee well;
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie,

And blot life's latest scene with calumny;
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare,

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear;
But deeply feels a single cry would shame,
To valor's praise thy last and dearest claim;
The life thou leav'st below, denied above
By kind monopolists of heavenly love;
And more than doubtful paradise-thy heaven
Of earthly hope thy loved one from thee riven.
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain,
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain:
And those sustain'd he-boots it well or ill?
Since not to sink beneath, is something still!

VII.

The first day pass'd-he saw not her-Gulnare-
The second-third-and still she came not there;
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done,
Or else he had not seen another sun.

The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might:
Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep,
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep;
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent,
Roused by the roar of his own element !
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave,
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ;
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear,
A long-known voice-alas! too vainly near!
Load sung the wind above; and, doubly loud,
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud;
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar,
To him more genial than the midnight star:
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain,
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain.

By the way-I have a charge against you. As the great Mr Dennis roared out on a similar occasion, By Gd, that is my thunder-so do I exclaim, 'This is my I alle to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Perowra and the Empress, where the thought, and almost expression, are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of the Corsair. I, however, do not say this to accuse you, but to except myself from suspicion; as there is a priority of six ths' publication on my part, between the appearance of that composition and of your tragedies."-Lord Byron to

He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd
One pitying flash to mar the form it made:'
His steel and impious prayer attract alike—
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike;
Its peal wax'd fainter-ceased--he felt alone,
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan!

VIII.

The midnight pass'd-and to the massy door
A light step came--it paused-it moved once more;
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key:
"Tis as his heart foreboded-that fair she!
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint,
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint;
Yet changed since last within that cell she came,
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame :
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye,
Which spoke before her accents-" Thou must die!
Yes, thou must die-there is but one resource,
The last-the worst--if torture were not worse."

66

Why should I seek? because-Oh! didst thou not Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? Why should I seek?-hath misery made thee blind 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-
Because-despite thy crimes-that heart is moved:
It fear'd thee-thank'd thee-pitied-madden'd-
loved.

Reply not, tell not now thy tale again,
Thou lov'st another-and I love in vain ;
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair,
I rush through peril which she would not dare.
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear,
Were I thine own-thou wert not lonely here:
An outlaw's spouse-and leave her lord to roam!
What hath such gentle dame to do with home?
But speak not now-o'er thine and o'er my head
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread;
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free,
Receive this poniard—rise—and follow me!”

"Ay-in my chains! my steps will gently tread,
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head!
Thou hast forgot-is this a garb for flight?
Or is that instrument more fit for fight?"

"Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard,
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward.
A single word of mine removes that chain:
Without some aid how here could I remain?

Mr. Sotheby, Sept. 25, 1815.-The following are the lines in Mr. Sotheby's tragedy :

"And I have leapt

In transport from my flinty couch, to welcome
The thunder as it burst upon my roof;
And beckon'd to the lightning, as it flash'd
And sparkled on these fetters."

Notwithstanding Lord Byron's precaution, the coincidence in question was cited against him, some years after, in a periodical journal.]

XII.

She clapp'd her hands-and through the gallery pour,
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals-Greek and Moor;
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind;
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind!
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate,
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight.
No words are utter'd-at her sign, a door
Reveals the secret passage to the shore;
The city lies behind-they speed, they reach
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach;
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd,
Ner cared he now if rescued or betray'd;
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed.

XIII.

Erabark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew-
How much had Conrad's memory to review!
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape.
Ah!-since that fatal night, though brief the time,
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime.
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast,
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd;
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.

She watch'd his features till she could not bear
Their freezing aspect and averted air,

1 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 mayst forgive though Allah's self detest;
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou?
Reproach me but not yet-Oh! 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
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made;
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexpress'd,
They bleed within that silent cell-his breast.
Stil 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 spot-a mast-a sail-an armed deck!
Their little bark her men of watch descry,
And ampler canvass 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!

"I have added a section for Gulnare, to fill up the parting, and dismiss her more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gifford or

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;
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.
Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill,
Extreine 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 he less ?1---
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 guilt,
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt;
And he was free!-and she for him had given
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 he gave,
Who now seem'd changed and humbled:-faint and
meek,

But varying oft the color of her cheek

To deeper shades of paleness-all its red
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead!
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 own
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-t 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 this,
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith-
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath,
To lips-whose broken sighs such fragrance fling
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing!

XVIII.

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. To them the very rocks appear to smile;

you dislike, 'tis but a sponge and another midnight."- Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Jan. 11, 1814.)