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And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
Select the arms-to each his blade assign, And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, While others straggling muse along the shore ;
For the wild bird the busy springes set,
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;
No matter where-their chief's allotment this;
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. But who that CHIEF? his name on every
Is famed and fear'd-they ask and know no
With these he mingles not but to command; Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial
But they forgive his silence for success.
And scarce the summer-luxury of fruits, His short repast in humbleness supply With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. "Steer to that shore!"-they sail. "Do this!"-'tis done: "Now form and follow me!"-the spoil is
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,
And all obey and few inquire his will;
“A sail!—a sail!"-a promised prize to
Already doubled is the cape-our bay
ing art That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What lonely straggler looks along the wave? Still sways their souls with that commandIn pensive posture leaning on the brand, Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand? "Tis he 'tis Conrad-here-as wontalone;
On-Juan! on-and make our purpose known.
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet:
When strange or uninvited steps intrude."
What is that spell, that thus his lawless
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain?
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with
That moulds another's weakness to its will; Him Juan sought, and told of their intent-Wields with their hands, but, still to these He spake not-but a sign express'd assent. TheseJuan calls-they come to their salute He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. "These letters, Chief, are from the Greek-the spy,
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:
Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech:
To gather how that eye the tidings took;
He read the scroll-"My tablets, Juan,
Where is Gonsalvo?"
"In the anchor'd bark." "There let him stay-to him this order bear. Back to your duty-for my course prepare: Myself this enterprize to-night will share." "To-night, Lord Conrad?"
"Ay! at set of sun: The breeze will freshen when the day is
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear
Such hath it been-shall be-beneath the sun
They gaze and marvel how- and still confess
The sable curls in wild profusion veil,
Though smooth his voice, and calm his
His features' deepening lines and varying hue
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy
The full encounter of his searching eye; He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven.
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school,
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;
He hated man too much to feel remorse,
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
From all affection and from all contempt: His name could sadden, and his acts surprise; But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake The slumbering venom of the folded snake: The first may turn-but not avenge the
The last expires-but leaves no living foe; Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, And he may crush-not conquer-still it stings!
None are all evil - quickening round his heart,
One softer feeling would not yet depart;
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.
Could render sullen were she near to smile,
This common courage which with brutes we share,
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair,
To teach my few with numbers still to cope;
My lot hath long had little of my care,
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,
Thus with himself communion held he, Lest spies less true should let the blaze
expire; many a restless hour outwatch'd each
And morning came-and still thou wert
Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,
At length-'twas noon-I hail'd and blest
Would that those days were over! wilt
As bright as this invites us not to roam :
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, | We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, Which flies from love and languishes for Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. strifeWhy-thou wert worse than he who broke How strange that heart, to me so tender still, his vow Should war with nature and its better will!"
"Yea, strange indeed-that heart hath long been changed; Worm-like 'twas trampled adder-like avenged,
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love,
My very love to thee is hate to them,
Yet dread not this-the proof of all the past
The feast these hands delighted to prepare;
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased,
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill;
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears:
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; Or even that traitor-chief-I've seen thee
If there be life below and hope above, "Again-again--and oft again -my love! He will return—but now, the moments bring The time of parting with redoubled wing: The why-the where what boots it now to tell?
Since all must end in that wild wordfarewell! Yet would I fain-did time allow-disclose
Fear not-these are no formidable foes; And here shall watch a more than wonted guard,
For sudden siege and long defence prepared: Nor be thou lonely-though thy lord's away, Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay;
And this thy comfort-that, when next we meet, Security shall make repose more sweet: One kissList!-'tis the bugle-Juan shrilly blew-one more-another-Oh! Adieu!"
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms; Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt
Think not I mean to chide- for I rejoice So full-that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! What others deem a penance is thy choice. Hark-peals the thunder of the signal-gun! But come, the board is spread; our silver-It told 'twas sunset and he cursed that sun.
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's
damp: Then shall my handmaids while the time
And join me in the dance, or wake the song; Or my guitar, which still thou lovest to
hear, Shall soothe or lull-or, should it vex thine
Again-again-that form he madly press'd; Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd! And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, One moment gazed as if to gaze no more;
Felt that for him earth held but her alone, Kiss'd her cold forehead-turn'd-is Conrad gone?
"And is he gone?"-on sudden solitude How oft that fearful question will intrude?