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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, Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd; Resistance were as useless as if Seyd Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed.
Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest;
XV. She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made; 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 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. Cp rose kren Conrad from his silent trance, A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; “ 'T is mine - my blood-red flag ! again -againI 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 ! Conrail!" shouting from the deck, Command nor duty could their transport check!
With light alacrity and gaze of pride,
XVII. This Conrad mark'd, and felt - ah! could he less ? I. 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
you dislike, 't is but a sponge and another milnight." – Lord Byron to Mr. Miuray, Jan. 11. 1914.)
But since the dagger suits thee less than brand,
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time,
start, Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart; 'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now It points within the port a Mainote prow : But in one chamber, where our path must lead, There sleeps—he must not wake-the oppressor Seyd!”
IX. She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, But his glance followed far with eager eye ; And gathering, as he could, the links that bound His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where That passage led; nor lamp nor guard were there : He sees a dusky glimmering - shall he seek Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear Full on his brow, as if from morning airHe reach'd an open gallery - on his eye Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky: Yet scarcely heeded these - another light From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. With hasty step a figure outward past, [last! Then paused — and turn'd- and paused — 't is She at No poniard in that hand - nor sign of ill — “Thanks to that softening heart-she could not kill." Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. She stopp'd - threw back her dark far-floating hair, That nearly veild her face and bosom fair : As if she late had bent her leaning head Above some object of her doubt or dread. They meet — upon her brow - unknown - forgotHer hurrying hand had left-'t was but a spot Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime - 't is blood !
“ Gunare - Gulnare — I never felt till now My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : Seyd is mine enemy: had swept my band From earth with ruthless but with open hand, And therefore came I, in my bark of war, To smite the smiter with the scimitar; Such is my weapon - not the secret knife Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast! Night wears apace - my last of earthly rest!”
He had seen battle - he had brooded lone
“ Rest! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake,
XI. “ 'T is done — he nearly waked - but it is done. Corsair ! he perish'd - thou art dearly won. All words would now be vain — away - away! Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. The few gaind over, now are wholly mine, And these thy yet surviving band shall join : Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, When once our sail forsakes this bated strand."
With light alacrity and gaze of pride, She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, They view him mount once more his vessel's side; Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor; A smile relaxing in each rugged face, Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! He, half forgetting danger and defeat, But on his heavy heart such sadness sate,
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, As if they there transferr'd that iron weight.
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, No words are utter'd - at her sign, a door
And feels he yet can conquer and command !
These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow; Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd;
They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known Resistance were as useless as if Seyd
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed.
She were their queen - less scrupulouus are they
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. XIII.
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare; How much had Conrad's memory to review !
And her, at once above - beneath her sex, Sunk he in Contemplation, till the care
Whom blood appall'd not, their regaris perplex. Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape.
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, Ah!- since that fatal night, though brief the time,
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime.
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, As its far shadow frown'd above the mast,
Which - Conrad safe to fate resign'd the rest. He veild his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd;
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band,
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,
The worst of crimes had left her woman still!
This Conrad mark'd, and felt - ah! could he less ? ! She watch'd his features till she could not bear
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, She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd,
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; “ Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest;
And he was free ! — and she for him had given But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ?
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven! Reproach me— but not yet - Oh! spare me now !
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave,
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, I am not what I seem - this fearful night My brain bewilder'd - do not madden quite !
Who now seem'd changed and humbled: - faint and If I had never loved - though less my guilt,
meek, Thou hadst not lived to - hate me - if thou wilt."
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 dead !
He clasp'd that hand - it trembled - a
his own They bleed within that silent cell - his breast. Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, “ Gulnare !"_but she replied not—" dear Gulnare!" The blue waves sport around the stern they urge; She raised her eye — her only answer there Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck,
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace: A spot - a mast — a sail — an armed deck!
If he had driven her from that resting-place, Their little bark her men of watch descry,
His had been more or less than mortal heart, And ampler canvass woos the wind from high; But - good or ill — it bade her not depart. She bears her down majestically near,
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ;
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. A flash is seen - the ball beyond their bow
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below.
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, Cp rose keen Conrad from his silent trance,
The first, the last that Frailty stole from FaithA long, long absent gladness in his glance;
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, “ 'Tis mine - my blood-red flag ! again - again - To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling I am not all deserted on the main !"
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing!
." I have added a section for Gulnare, to fill up the part. Ing, and dismiss her more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gifford or
rou dislike, 'tis but a and another mielnight." - Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, JanS1814.]
The haven hums with many a cheering sound,
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, Long fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, The boats are darting o'er the curly bay,
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind; Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek,
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak !
But she is nothing - wherefore is he here? Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams,
XXI. Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams.
He ask'd no question - all were answer'd now Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,
By the first glance on that still — marble brow.
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:
The only living thing he could not hate, He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark,
Was reft at once- and he deserved his fate, Amid so many, hers alone is dark.
But did not feel it less ; – the good explore, 'Tis strange of yore its welcome never faild,
Tor peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veild.
The proud - the wayward — who have fix'd below With the first boat descends he for the shore,
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, And looks impatient on the lingering oar.
Lose in that one their all — perchance a miteOh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,
But who in patience parts with all delight? To bear him like an arrow to that height!
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern With the first pause the resting rowers gave,
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave,
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. Ascends the path familiar to his eye.
XXII. He reach'd his turret door – he paused — no sound
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest Broke from within ; and all was night around.
The in listinctness of the suffering breast; He knock'd, and loudly - footstep nor reply
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, Announced that any heard or deen'd him nigh;
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; He knock'd — but faintly – for his trembling hand
No words suffice the secret soul to show, Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. The portal opens - 't is a well known face
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, But not the form he panted to embrace.
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest; Its lips are silent - twice his own essay'd,
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ;
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : He snatch'd the lamp - its light will answer all —
It was the very weakness of his brain, It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. He would not wait for that reviving ray
None saw his trickling tcars — perchance, if seen, As soon could he have linger'd there for day;
That useless flood of grief had never been : But, glimmering through the dusky corridore,
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor;
In helpless - hopeless - brokenness of heart : His steps the chamber gain - his eyes behold
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim; All that his heart believed not — yet foretold !
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him.
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind,
On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind !
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain,
XXIII. And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain !
His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong; In life itself she was so still and fair,
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew And the cold flowers! her colder hand contain'd,
Within the grot; like that had harden'd too; In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. And veild - thought shrinks from all that lurk'd
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, below
Though dark the shade - it shelter'd - saved till now.
The thunder came — that bolt bath blasted both,
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth:
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips —
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell; Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,
And of its cold protector, blacken round And wish'd repose -- but only for a while;
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! ! In the Levant it is the custom to strew novers on the
? [These sixteen lines are not in the original MS.] bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place a nosegay.
XXIV. 'Tis morn - to venture on his lonely hour Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his 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 naine till echo waxeth weak; Mount-grotto — cavern - valley search'd in vain, They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main.
I That the point of honour which is represented in one instance of Conrad's character has not been carried beyond the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a brother buccaneer in the year 1814:-" Our readers have all seen the account of the enterprise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, Te believe, were informed of the situation, history, or nature of that establishment. For the information of such as were unacquainted with it, we have procured irom a friend the fol. lowing interesting narrative of the main facts, of which he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest some of our readers. - Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of Mexico; it runs through a rich but very flat country, until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fiteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which persons can lie con. ccaled from the severest scrutiny. It communicates with three lakes which lie on the south-west side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and which lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and west points of this island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates, under the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of that class of the population of the state of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba; and when the last war between France and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that island with the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of them the state of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor of that State of the clause in the constitution which forbad the importation of slaves ; bat, at the same time, received the assurance of the Governor that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the Ge. Deral Gorernment for their retaining this property. - The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 deg. 15 min., lon. 92 30. ; and is as remarkable for its health as for the superior sale and shell fish with which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the attention oi the Governor of Louisiana ; and to break up the establishment, he thought proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward of 300 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known to the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his immediate connection, and his once having been a fencingmaster in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered out 3 company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. This company, under the command of a man who had been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, approached very near to the fortified island, before he saw a inan, or heard a sound, until he heard a shistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed men who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was that the ir odern Charles de Moor developed his lew noble traits ; for to this man who had come to destroy his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his lise, but ol. tered him that which would have made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days; which was indignantly refuselt. lle then, with the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and some concomitant erents, proved that this hand of pirates was not to be taken by land.
Our naval force having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction of this illicit Establishment could not be expected from them until aug. metted; for an otficer of the navy, with most of the gunboats on that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the
'Tis idle all moons roll on moons away,
beside ; And fair the monument they gave his bride : 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.? nary authorised an attack, one was made ; the orerthrow of this banditti has been the result; and now this almost invul. nerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold it by a strong military force." - American Newspaner.
In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical History there is a singular passage in his account of Archbishop Blackbourne ; and as in some measure connected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. -" There is something my's. terious in the history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but imperfectly known; and report has even asserted he was a buccaneer; and that one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, He is Archbishop of York. We are intormed, that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, which office he re. signed in 1702 ; but after his successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he became dean ; and in 1714, held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24. 1716; and translated to York, November 28. 1724, as a reward, ac. cording to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses ; but so far from being convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Black. bourne certainly was? He who had so perfect a knowledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek tragedians), as to be able to read them with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages; and have had both leisure and good masters.
But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ Church College, Oxford. He is allowed to have been a pleasant man: this, however, was turned against him by its being said, he gained more hearts than souls.'"
“ The only voice that could soothe the passions of the savage (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable and virtuous wise, the sole object of his love; the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand.daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. - Her dying words sunk deep into his memory :
fierce spirit melted into tears; and after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human life." - Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 473.
? [In “ The Corsair," Lord Byron first felt himself at full liberty; and then all at once he shows the unbroken stream of his native eloquence, of rapid narrative, of vigorous and intense, yet unforced imagery, sentiment, and thought; of extraordinary elasticity, transparency, purity, ease, and har. mony of language; of an arrangement of words, never trite, yet always simple and flowing; – in such a perfect expression of ideas, always impressive, generally pointed, frequently pas. sionate, and oiten new, that it is perspicuity itself, with not a supertluous word, and not a word out of its natural place. Sir E. BRYDGES. “ The Corsair" is written in the regular heroic couplet, with a spirit, freedom, and variety of tone, of which, notwithstanding the example of Dryden, we scarcely believed that measure susceptible. It was yet to be proved that this, the most ponderous and stately verse in our lan. guage, could be accommodate to the variations of a tale of passion and of pity, and to all the breaks, starts, and transitions of an adventurous and dramatic narration. This experiment Lord Byron has manie, with equal toldness and success; and has satisfied 118, that the oldest and most respectable measure that is known amongst us, is at least as flexible as any other, and capable, in the hands of a master, of vibrations as strong and rapid as those of a lighter structure. - JEFFREY.]