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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!


His heart was form'd for softness—warp'd to wrong; (1) 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;
(2) [These sixteen lines are not in the original MS. — E.]

And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!


'Tis morn
Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower.
He was not there—nor seen along the shore;
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er:
Another morn- another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount-grotto-cavern-valley search'd in vain,
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain:
Their hope revives-they follow o'er the main.
'Tis idle all-moons roll on moons away,

—to venture on his lonely hour

And Conrad comes not- -came not since that day:
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair!

Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn

And fair the monument they gave his bride:
For him they raise not the recording stone—
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known;
He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.(1)

(1) [In "The Corsair," Lord Byron first felt himself at full liberty; and then all at once he shows the unbroken stream of his native eloquence, of rapid narrative, of vigorous and intense, yet unforced, imagery, senti ment, and thought; of extraordinary elasticity, transparency, purity, ease, and harmony of language; of an arrangement of words, never trite, yet always simple and flowing; · in such a perfect expression of ideas, always impressive, generally pointed, frequently passionate, and often new, that it is perspicuity itself, with not a superfluous word, and not a word out of its natural place. It is strange that he who was so young, who had led a life of adventure more than of study, nay, who had often

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e "Corsair" is written in the regular heroic couplet, with a spirit, m, and variety of tone, of which, notwithstanding the example of en, we scarcely believed that measure susceptible. It was yet to be I that this, the most ponderous and stately verse in our language, be accommodated to the variations of a tale of passion and of pity, all the breaks, starts, and transitions of an adventurous and dranarration. This experiment Lord Byron has made, with equal ss and success; and has satisfied us, that the oldest and most respectleasure that is known amongst us, is at least as flexible as any other, pable, in the hands of a master, of vibrations as strong and rapid as of a lighter structure.-JEFFREY.]

the point of honour which is represented in one instance of Concharacter has not been carried beyond the bounds of probability, may ps be in some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a brother neer in the year 1814:-" Our readers have all seen the account of the prise against the pirates of Barrataria; but few, we believe, were ind of the situation, history, or nature of that establishment. For the nation of such as were unacquainted with it, we have procured from a the following interesting narrative of the main facts, of which he has al knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest some of our readers rataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of Mexico; it runs through but very flat country, until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches t innumerable, in which persons can lie concealed from the severest ny. It communicates with three lakes which lie on the south-west and these, with the lake of the same name, and which lies contiguous sea, where there is an island formed by the two arms of this lake and ea. The east and west points of this island were fortified, in the year by a band of pirates under the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. ge majority of these outlaws are of that class of the population of the of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the les there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba; and when the last between France and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave island with the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony entered the United States, the most of them the state of Louisiana, all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were notified he Governor of that State of the clause in the constitution which

forbad the importation of slaves; but, at the same time, received the assurance of the Governor that he would obtain, if possible, the appro. bation of the General Government for their retaining this property. The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 deg. 15 min., lon. 92. 30.; and is as remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell fish with which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana; and to break up the establishment he thought proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known to the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his immediate connection, and his once having been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. This company, under the command of a man who had been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, approached very near to the fortified island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed men who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed his few noble traits; for to this man, who had come to destroy his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his life, but offered him that which would have made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days; which was indignantly refused. He then, with the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our naval force having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment could not be expected from them until augmented; for an officer of the navy, with most of the gun-boats on that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the navy authorised an attack, one was made; the overthrow of this banditti has been the result; and now this almost invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold it by a strong military force." American Newspaper.

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical History there is a singular passage in his account of Archbishop Blackbourne; and as in some measure connected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it.—"There is something mysterious in the history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but imperfectly known; and report has even asserted he was a buccaneer; and that one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, he is Archbishop of York. We are informed

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