THEY gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle, To them the very rocks appear to smile; The haven hums with many a cheering sound, The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray, Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home, Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ?
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 failed,
Nor now, perchance, extinguished, only veiled.
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.
He reached his turret door-he paused-no sound
Broke from within; and all was night around.
He knocked, and loudly-footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deemed him nigh;
He knocked-but faintly-for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy hearts demand.'
The portal opens-'tis a well-known face-
But not the form he panted to embrace.
Its lips are silent-twice his own essayed,
And failed to frame the question they delayed;
He snatched the lamp-its light will answer all-
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.
He would not wait for that reviving ray-
As soon could he have lingered there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor,
Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold!
He turned not-spoke not-sunk not-fixed 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!
In life itself she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect withered there;
And the cold flowers her colder hand contained,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strained
As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veiled-thought shrinks from all that lurked below-
Oh! o'er the eye death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips
Yet, yet they seem as they forebore to smile,
And wished repose-but only for a while;
But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long-fair-but spread in utter lifelessness,
Which, late the sport of every summer wind,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;
These and the pale pure cheek, became the bier-
But she is nothing-wherefore is he here?
He asked no question-all were answered now
By the first glance on that still-marble brow.
It was enough-she died-what recked it how?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
'The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,
The only living thing he could not hate,
Was reft at once-and he deserved his fate,
But did not feel it less ;-the good explore,
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar
The proud-the wayward-who have fixed below
Their joy and find this earth enough for woe,
Lose in that one their all-perchance a mite
But who in patience parts with all delight?
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost
In smiles that least befit who wear them most.
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest
The indistinctness of the suffering breast;
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,
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe,
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest,
And stupor almost lulled 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 confessed without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flowed-he dried them to depart,
In helpless-hopeless-brokenness of heart;
The sun goes forth-but Conrad's day is dim ;
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!
Which may not-dare not see-but turns aside
To blackest shade-nor will endure a guide!
His heart was formed for softness-warped to wrong;
Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long;
Each feeling pure-as falls the dropping dew
Within the grot; like that had hardened too;
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed,
But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock;
If such his heart, so shattered it the shock.
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,
Though dark the shade-it sheltered-sav'd till now.
The thunder came-that bolt hath blasted both,
The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth:
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and withered where it fell,
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shivered fragments on the barren ground!
'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, alarmed, their isle is traversed o'er :
Another morn-another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount-grotto-cavern-valley searched in vain,
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain :
Their hopes revive-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 perished his despair!
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn 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,
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.
"'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,
And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
"One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all!
Though sunuy the lake of cool CASHMERE, "With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,
"And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; "Though bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY, "And the golden floods, that thitherward stray, "Yet-oh 'tis only the blest can say
"How the waters of Heaven outshine them all! "Go wing thy flight from star to star, "From world to luminous world as far
"As the universe spreads its flaming wall; "Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, "And multiply each through endless years, "One minute of Heaven is worth them all!"
""Tis written in the book of Fate, "The Peri yet may be forgiven "Who brings to this Eternal Gate
"The Gift that is most dear to Heaven! Go, seek it and redeem thy sin;
"Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in !"
Now, upon SYRIA's land of roses
Softly the light of Eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted LEBANON;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one, who look'd from upper air
O'er all th' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sun-light falls ;-
Gay lizards glittering on the walls
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light,—
And yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm west, as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
Th' unclouded skies of PERISTAN.
And then the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,
Banqueting through the flowery vales;And JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine, And woods so full of nightingales!
But nought can charm the luckless PERI:
Her soul is sad-her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great temple, once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,
Had raised to count his ages by!
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