10 BYRON'S

Through guards and dunnest night how came itthere ?

Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare ?

Whom youth aud pity lead like thee, Gulnare!

She could not sleep—and while the dacha’s restIn muttering dreams yet saw his pirate guest,

She left his side—his signet-ring she bore,

Which oft in sport adorn’d her hand before—

And with it, scarcely question'd, won her wayThrough drowsy guards that must that sign obey.Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows,Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose;

And chill and nodding at the turret door,

They stretch their listless limbs, and watch nomore!

Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring,

Nor ask or what or ■who the sign may bring.

xnr.

She gazed in wonder, “ Can he calmly sleep,

While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?

And mine iu restlessness are wandering here—What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ?True—'tis to him my life, and more, I owe,

And me and mine he spared from worse thanwoe:

’Tis late to think—hut soft—his slumber breaks—How heavily he sighs 1—he starts—awakes I”

He raised his head—and dazzled with the light,

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright:

He moved his hand—the grating of his chainToo harshly told him that he lived again.

“ What is that form ? if not a shape of air,Methinks, my jailer’s face show's wondrous fair!’’

“ Pirate! thou know’st me not: but I am one,Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done;

Look on me—and remember her, thy handSnatch’d from the flames, and thy more fearfulband.

I come through darkness — and I scarce knowwhy—

Yet not to hurt—I would not seo thee die.”

“ If so, kind lady! thine the only eyeThat would not here in that gay hope delight.Theirs is the chance — and let them use theirright.

But still I thank their courtesy or thine,

That would confess me at so fair a shrine!”

Strange though it seem—yet with extremest griefIs link’d a mirth—it doth not bring relief—

That playfulness of sorrow ne’er beguiles,

And smiles in bitterness—but still it’smiles;

And sometimes with the wisest and the best,

Till even the scaffold * echoes with their jest 1Yfet not the joy to which it seems akin—

It may deceive all hearts, save that within.Whate’er it was that flash’d on Conrad, nowA laughing wildness half unbent his brow 1And these his accents had a sound of mirth,

As if the last he could enjoy on earth ;

Yet ’gainst his nature—for through that short life,Few thoughts had ho to spare from gloom andstrife.

WORKS.

XIV.

“ Corsair • thy doom is named—but I have powerTo soothe the Pacba in his weaker hour.

Thee would I spare—nay more—would save thoonow,

But this — time — hope — nor even thy strengthallow;

But all I can, I will; at least, delayThe sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

Ho re now were ruin—even thyself were lothThe vain attempt should bring but doom to both.”

“ Yes!—loth indeed:—my soul is nerved to all,

Or fall’n too low to fear a further fall:

Tempt not thyself with peril: me with hopeOf flight from foes with whom I could not cope:Unfit to vanquish—shall I meanly fly,

The one of all my band that would not die ?

Yet there is one—to whom my memory clings,

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs.

My sole resources in the path I trodWere these—my bark—my sword—my love—myGod !

The last I left in youth—He leaves me now—

And Man but works his will to lay mo low.

I have no thought to mock His throne with prayerWrung from the coward crouching of despair;

It is enough—I breathe—and I can bear.

My sword is shaken from the worthless handThat might have better kept so true a brand;

My bark is sunk or captive—but my love—

For her in sooth my voice would mount above:

Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind—

And this will break a heart so more than kind.

And blight a form—till thine appear’d, Gulnare!Mine eye ne’er ask’d if others were as fair.”

“ Thou lov’st another then ?—but what to meIs this—’tis nothing—nothing e’er can be:

But yet—thou lov'st—and—Oh! I envy thoseWhose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose.Who never feel the void—the wandering thoughtThat sighs o'er visions — such as mine hathwrought.”

“ Lady—methought thy love was his, for whomThis arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb.”

“My love stern Seyd’s! Oh—No—No—not mylove—

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, oncestrove

To meet his passion—but it would not be.

I felt—I feel—love dwells with—with the free.

I am a slave, a favour’d slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest!

Oft must my soul the question undergo,

Of—‘ Dost thou lqve?’ and burn to answer, ‘ No!’Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,

And struggle not to feel averse in vain;

But harder still the heart’s recoil to bear,

And hide from one—perhaps another there.

He takes the hand I give not—nor withhold—

Its pulse nor check’d —nor quicken'd—calmlycold:

And when resign’d, it drops a lifeless weightFrom one I never loved enough to hate.

No wacmth these lips return by his impress’d,

And chill’d remembrance shudders o’er the rest

* In Sir Thomas Moore, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn , in the Tower, when, graspingher neck, she remarked, that it “ was too slender to trouble the headsman much.” During one part ofthe French revolution, it became a fashion to leave some mot as a legacy; and the quantity of facetiouslast words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable si^e,— &