Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time,
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime:

The crime-'tis none to punish those of Seyd.
That hated tyrant, Conrad- -he must bleed !
I see thee shudder- —but my soul is changed-
Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled—and it shall be avenged-
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd-
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd.
Yes, smile!-but he had little cause to sneer,
I was not treacherous then-nor thou too dear:
But he has said it—and the jealous well,
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel,
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell.

I never loved-he bought me somewhat high-
Since with me came a heart he could not buy.
I was a slave unmurmuring: he hath said,
But for his rescue with thee had filed.

'Twas false thou know'st-but let such augurs rue,
Their words are omens Insult renders true.
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer;
This fleeting grace was only to prepare
New torments for thy life, and my despair.
Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still
Would fain reserve me for his lordly will:
When wearier of these fleeting charms and me,
There yawns the sack-and yonder rolls the sea!
What, am I then a toy for dotard's play,
To wear but till the gilding frets away?

I saw thee-loved thee-owe thee all-would save,
If but to show how grateful is a slave.

But had he not thus menaced fame and life,
(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,)
I still had saved thee-but the Pacha spared.
Now I am all thine own-for all prepared :
Thou lov'st me not- -nor know'st-or but the worst.
Alas! this love-that hatred are the first-
Oh! couldst thou prove my truth, thou would'st not
start,

Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart;
'Tis now the beacon of thy safety-now

It points within the port a Mainote prow :
But in one chamber, where our path must lead,
There sleeps he must not wake-the oppressor Seyd!"

"Gulnare

Gulnare-I never felt till now My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low: Seyd is mine enemy: had swept my band From earth with ruthless but with open hand, And therefore came I, in my bark of war, To smite the smiter with the scimitar; Such is my weapon-not the secret knifeWho spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for thisLet me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Now fare thee well- -more peace be with thy breast! Night wears apace-my last of earthly rest!"

"Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake,
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake.
I heard the order-saw-I will not see-
If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee.
My life my love-my hatred-all below
Are on this cast- Corsair! 't is but a blow!
Without it flight were idle-how evade
His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid,
My youth disgraced-the long, long wasted years,
One blow shall cancel with our future fears;

She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply,
But his glance followed far with eager eye;
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound
His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound,
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude,
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued.

[last!

'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where
That passage led; nor lamp nor guard were there:
He sees a dusky glimmering-shall he seek
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak?
Chance guides his steps-a freshness seems to bear
Full on his brow, as if from morning air-
He reach'd an open gallery-on his eye
Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky:
Yet scarcely heeded these-another light
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight.
Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more.
With hasty step a figure outward past,
Then paused and turn'd-and paused-'tis She at
No poniard in that hand-nor sign of ill-
"Thanks to that softening heart-she could not kill!"
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully.
She stopp'd-threw back her dark far-floating hair,
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair:
As if she late had bent her leaning head
Above some object of her doubt or dread.
They meet- upon her brow-unknown-forgot-
Her hurrying hand had left-'t was but a spot-
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood-
Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime-'tis blood!

He had seen battle-he had brooded lone
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown;
He had been tempted-chastened—and the chain
Yet on his arms might ever there remain:
But ne'er from strife-captivity-remorse—
From all his feelings in their inmost force-
So thrill'd-so shudder'd every creeping vein,
As now they froze before that purple stain.
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak,
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek!
Blood he had view'd-could view unmoved-but
then

It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men!

She clapp'd her hands- -and through the gallery pour,
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals-Greek and Moor;
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind;
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind!
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate,
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight.
No words are utter'd-at her sign, a door
Reveals the secret passage to the shore;
The city lies behind-they speed, they reach
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach;
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd,
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd;
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed.

Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew.
How much had Conrad's memory to review !
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape.
Ah!-since that fatal night, though brief the time,
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime.
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast,
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd;
He thought of all-Gonsalvo and his band,
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand;
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride :
He turn'd and saw-Gulnare, the homicide!

She watch'd his features till she could not bear Their freezing aspect and averted air,

And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye,
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry.
She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd,
"Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self detest;
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou?
Reproach me-but not yet-Oh! spare me now!
I am not what I seem-this fearful night
My brain bewilder'd-do not madden quite !
If I had never loved-though less my guilt,
Thou hadst not lived to-hate me-if thou wilt."
XV.
She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made;
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest,
They bleed within that silent cell-his breast.
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge,
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge;
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck,
A spot-a mast-a sail- -an armed deck!
Their little bark her men of watch descry,
And ampler canvass woos the wind from high;
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier;
A flash is seen-the ball beyond their bow
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below.
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance,
A long, long absent gladness in his glance;
"'Tis mine. my blood-red flag! again-again-
I am not all deserted on the main !"
They own the signal, answer to the hail,
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail.
"'Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the deck,
Command nor duty could their transport check!

1 ["I have added a section for Gulnare, to fill up the parting, and dismiss her more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gifford or

With light alacrity and gaze of pride,
They view him mount once more his vessel's side;
A smile relaxing in each rugged face,
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace.
He, half forgetting danger and defeat,
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet,
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand,
And feels he yet can conquer and command!

XVI.

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow;
They sail'd prepared for vengeance-had they known
A woman's hand secured that deed her own,
She were their queen-less scrupulous are they
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way.
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare,
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare;
And her, at once above-beneath her sex,
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex.
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye,
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by;
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast,
Which Conrad safe-to fate resign'd the rest.
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill,
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,
The worst of crimes had left her woman still!

XVII. This Conrad mark'd, and felt- -ah! could he less? Hate of that deed-but grief for her distress; What she has done no tears can wash away, And Heaven must punish on its angry day: But it was done: he knew, whate'er her guilt, For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; And he was free!-and she for him had given Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven! And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, Whose brow was bow'd bener th the glance he gave, Who now seem'd changed and humbled:-faint and meek,

But varying oft the colour of her cheek
To deeper shades of paleness-all its red
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead!
He took that hand. -it trembled-now too late
So soft in love-so wildly nerved in hate;
He clasp'd that hand-it trembled-and his own
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone.
"Gulnare!"-but she replied not-" dear Gulnare!"
She raised her eye- her only answer there-
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace:
If he had driven her from that resting-place,
His had been more or less than mortal heart,
But good or ill-it bade her not depart.
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast,
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest.
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this,
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith.
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath,
To lips-whose broken sighs such fragrance fling
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing!

XVIII.

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. To them the very rocks appear to smile;

you dislike, 'tis but a sponge and another midnight."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Jan. 11. 1814.]

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 sca-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?
XIX.

The lights are high on beacon and from bower,
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:
He looks in vain-'t is strange-and all remark,
Amid so many, hers alone is dark.

'Tis strange-of yore its welcome never fail'd,
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd.
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 reach'd his turret door-he paused-
-no sound
Broke from within; and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly-footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;
He knock'd- but faintly-for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens-'t is a well known face-
But not the form he panted to embrace.

Its lips are silent-twice his own essay'd,

And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd;

He snatch'd 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 linger'd there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore,
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor;
His steps the chamber gain-his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not-yet foretold!

XX.
He turn'd not- -spoke not- sunk not-fix'd 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 wither'd there;
And the cold flowers 1 her colder hand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veil'd-thought shrinks from all that lurk'd

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 lipsYet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, And wish'd repose-but only for a while;

1 In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place a nosegay.

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 bierBut she is nothing—wherefore is he here?

XXI.

He ask'd no question-all were answer'd now
By the first glance on that still-marble brow.
It was enough—she died—what reck'd 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 fix'd 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.
XXII.

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 lull'd 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 confess'd without relieving pain.
None saw his trickling tears-perchance, if seen,
That useless flood of grief had never been:
Nor long they flow'd-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!

wrong;

XXIII. His heart was form'd for softness-warp'd to Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; Each feeling pure- -as falls the dropping dew Within the grot; like that had harden'd too; Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, Though dark the shade-it shelter'd-saved 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 wither'd where it fell; And of its cold protector, blacken round But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!

A few days after he had put the finishing hand to the "Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte," Lord Byron adopted the most extraordinary resolution that, perhaps, ever entered into the mind of an author of any celebrity. Annoyed at the tone of disparagement in which his assailants-not content with blackening his moral and social character-now affected to speak of his genius, and somewhat mortified, there is reason to believe, by finding that his own friends dreaded the effects of constant publication on his ultimate fame, he came to the determination, not only to print no more in future, but to purchase back the whole of his past copyrights, and suppress every line he had ever written. With this view, on the 29th of April, he actually enclosed his publisher a draft for the money. "For all this," he said, "it might be as well to assign some reason I have none to give, except my own caprice, and I do not consider the circumstance of consequence enough to require explanation." An appeal, however, from Mr. Murray, to his good-nature and considerateness, brought, in eight and forty hours, the following reply:-" If your present note is serious, and it really would be inconvenient, there is an end of the matter: tear my draft, and go on as usual that I was perfectly serious, in wishing to suppress all future publication, is true; but certainly not to interfere with the convenience of others, and more particularly your own." The following passages in his Diary depict the state of Lord Byron's mind at this period:-"Murray has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, 'he is lucky in having such a poet'-something as if one was a pack-horse, orass, or any thing that is liis;' or like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on Razors, Laws, sir, we keeps a poet." The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript-The Harold and Cookery are much wanted. Such is fame I and, after all, quite as good as any other life in others' breath.' 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah Glasse or Hannah More.". "March 17th, Redde the Quarrels of Authors,' a new work by that most entertaining and researching writer, D'Israeli. They seem to be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. I'll not march through

With none to check and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.

And Lara left in youth his father-land;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;

Coventry with them, that's flat.' What the devil had I to do with the scribbling? It is too late to inquire, and all regret is useless. But 'an it were to do again- I should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, at least my share of it; — though I shall think better of myself if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that wife has a son, I will bring up mine heir in the most anti-poetical way-make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or anything. But if he writes, too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and will cut him off with a Bank token."-" April 19. I will keep no further journal; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume. Oh fool! I shall go mad.'"

These extracts are from the Diary of March and April, 1814. Before the end of May he had begun the composition of "Lara," which has been almost universally considered as the continuation of "The Corsair." This poem was published anonymously in the following August, in the same volume with Mr. Rogers's elegant tale of "Jacqueline; an unnatural and unintelligible conjunction, which, however, gave rise to some pretty good jokes. "I believe," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters, "I told you of Larry and Jacquy. A friend of mine- at least a friend of his-was reading said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A passenger took up the book and queried as to the author. The proprietor said, 'there were two;'-to which the answer of the unknown was, Ay, ay, a joint concern, I suppose, summot like Sternhold and Hopkins.' Is not this excellent? I would not have missed the vile comparison' to have escaped being the Arcades ambo et cantare pares.""]

2 The reader is apprised, that the name of Lara being Spanish, and no circumstance of local and natural description fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the word Serf,' which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of our fictitious chieftain. [Lord Byron elsewhere intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief of the Morea.]

3 [Lord Byron's own tale is partly told in this section.— SIR WALTER SCOTT.]