Canto III: Canto III III

Not now my theme--why turn my thoughts to thee?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?Not he--whose heart nor time nor distance frees,Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades!Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain,His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain--Would that with freedom it were thine again!

The Sun hath sunk--and, darker than the night,Sinks with its beam upon the beacon heightMedora's heart--the third day's come and gone--With it he comes not--sends not--faithless one!The wind was fair though light! and storms were none.Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, and yetHis only tidings that they had not met!Though wild, as now, far different were the taleHad Conrad waited for that single sail.The night-breeze freshens--she that day had passedIn watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast;Sadly she sate on high--Impatience boreAt last her footsteps to the midnight shore,And there she wandered, heedless of the sprayThat dashed her garments oft, and warned away:She saw not, felt not this--nor dared depart,Nor deemed it cold--her chill was at her heart;Till grew such certainty from that suspense--His very Sight had shocked from life or sense!

It came at last--a sad and shattered boat,Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;Some bleeding--all most wretched--these the few--Scarce knew they how escaped--this all they knew.In silence, darkling, each appeared to waitHis fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:Something they would have said; but seemed to fearTo trust their accents to Medora's ear.She saw at once, yet sunk not--trembled not--Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,That deemed not till they found their energy.While yet was Hope they softened, fluttered, wept--All lost--that Softness died not--but it slept;And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,"With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread."'Tis more than Nature's--like the burning mightDelirium gathers from the fever's height.

"Silent you stand--nor would I hear you tellWhat--speak not--breathe not--for I know it well--Yet would I ask--almost my lip deniesThe--quick your answer--tell me where he lies."

"Lady! we know not--scarce with life we fled;But here is one denies that he is dead:He saw him bound; and bleeding--but alive."

She heard no further--'twas in vain to strive--So throbbed each vein--each thought--till then withstood;Her own dark soul--these words at once subdued:She totters--falls--and senseless had the wavePerchance but snatched her from another grave;But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:hwDash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,Raise, fan, sustain--till life returns anew;Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leaveThat fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to reportThe tale too tedious--when the triumph short.