MEDORA.

BY LORD BYRON.

THUS with himself communion held he, till
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill :
There at the portal paus'd-for wild and soft
He heard those accents never heard too oft;
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung,
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung:

"Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles into silence as before.

"There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp

Burns the slow flame, eternal-but unseen;
Which not the darkness of despair can damp,
Though vain its ray as it had never been.

"Remember me-Oh! pass not thou my grave
Without one thought whose relics there recline:

The only pang my bosom dare not brave,
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.

My fondest faintest-latest accents hear―
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;
Then give me all I ever ask'd—a tear,

The first-last-sole reward of so much love!"

He pass'd the portal-cross'd the corridor,

And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er:

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My own Medora! sure thy song is sad?"

"In Conrad's absence would'st thou have it glad? Without thine ear to listen to my lay,

Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray:
Still must each accent to my bosom suit,

My heart unhush'd—although my lips were mute!
Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined,

My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind,
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale;
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge:
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire;
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star,
And morning came-and still thou wert afar.
Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,
And day broke dreary on my troubled view,
And still I gazed and gazed-and not a prow
Was granted to my tears-my truth-my vow!
At length-'twas noon-I hail'd and blest the mast
That met my sight-it near'd-Alas! it past!
Another came-Oh God! 'twas thine at last!
Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne'er,
My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share?
Sure thou hast more than wealth; and many a home
As bright as this invites us not to roam;
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear,
I only tremble when thou art not here;
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life,
Which flies from love and languishes for strife-
How strange that heart, to me so tender still,
Should war with nature and its better will!

(FROM "THE CORSAIR.")

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