THE OORSAIR.

Yes—had I ever proved that passion’s zeal,

The change to hatred were at least to feci:

But still—he goes unmount'd—returns unsought—And oft when present—absent from my thoughtOr when reflection comes, and come it must—

1 fear that henceforth ’twill but bring disgust;

1 am his slave—but, in despite of pride,

’Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.

Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!

Or seek another and give mine release,

But yesterday—I could have said, to peace 1Yes—if unwonted fondness now I feign,Remember— captive I ’tis to break thy chain;Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;

To give thee back to all endear’d below,

Who share such love as I can never know.Farewell—morn breaks—and I must now away:'Twill cost mo dear—but dread no death to-day:’'xv.

She pressed his fettered fingers to her heart,

And bow’d her head, and turn’d her to depart,

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.

And was she here ? and is he now alone ?

What gem hath dropp’dandsparkles o’er hischain?The tear most sacred, shed for others’ pain.

That starts at once—bright—pure—from Pity'smine,

Already polish’d by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing—dangerously dear—

In woman's eye the unanswerable tear;

That weapon of her weakness she can wield,

To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield:Avoid it—Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?

The timid tear in Cleopatra’s eye.

Yet he the soft triumvir’s fault forgiven;

By this—how many lose not earth—but heaven!Consign their souls to man’s eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some wanton’s woe.

XVI.

'Tis morn—and o’er his alter’d features playThe beams—without the hope of yesterday.

What shall he be ere night? perchance a thingO’er which the rarven flaps her funeral wing:

By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt,

While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,Chill—wet—and misty round each stiffen’d limb,Refreshing earth— reviving all but him!—

CANTO THE THIRD.

“Come vedi—ancor non m' abbandona.”—D ante,

i.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,

Along More a 1 s hills the setting sun;

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,

But one unclouded blaze of living light!

n

CVer the hush’d deep the yellow beam he throws,Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.

On old iEgina's rock, and Idra’s isle,

The god of gladness ...• s his parting smile;

O’er his own regions 1 igering, loves to shine,Though there his altars are no more divine.Descending fast the mountain shadows kissThy glorious gulf, unconquer’d Salamis!

Their azure arches through the long expanseMore deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,And tenderest tints, along their summits driveo,Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven;Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,

Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,

When—Atheus! here thy Wisest look’d his lastHow watch’d thy better sons his farewell ray.

That closed their murder’d sage’s* * * § latest day!

Not yet—not yet—Sol pauses on the hill—

The precious hour of parting lingers still;

But sad his light to agonizing eyes.

And dark the mountain’s once delightful dyes :Gloom o’er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,

The land, where Phcebus never frown’d beforeBut ere he sank below Cithteron’s head,

The cup of woe was quaff'd—the spirit fled;

The soul of him who scorn’d to fear or fly—

Who lived and died, as none can live or die *

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,

The queen of night asserts her silent reign.fNo murky vapour, herald of the storm,

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,There the white column greets her grateful ray,And, bright around with quivering beams beset,Her emblem sparkles o’er the minaret:

The groves of olive scatter’d dark and wideWhere meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,

The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,}

And, dun and sombre ’mid the holy calm,

Near Theseus ' fane yon solitary palm,

AH tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye—

And dull were his that pass’d them heedless by.

Again the ZEgean, heard no more afar,

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war:

Again his waves in milder tints unfoldTheir long array of sapphire and of gold,

Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle,

That frown—where gentler ocean seems to smile.§

II.

Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts tothee ?

Oh! who can look along thy native sea,

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate’er the tale,

So much its magic must o’er all prevail ?

Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set,

Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget ?

* Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding theEntreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.— B.

t The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, butsummer of shorter duration.— B.

X The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not farfrom the temple of Theseus , between which and the tree the wall intervenes.—Cephisus’ stream is indeedScanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.— B.

§ The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to anunpublished (though printed) poem; but they were written on the spot in the spring of 1811, and, I scarceknow why, the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can.— B.