The Bride of Abydos: Canto I

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtleAre emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume,Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom;Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,And all, save the spirit of man, is divine--Tis the clime of the East--'tis the land of the Sun--Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewellezAre the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

"O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,Survey our empire, and behold our home!These are our realms, no limits to their sway--Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.Ours the wild life in tumult still to rangeFrom toil to rest, and joy in every change.Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;Not thou, vain lord of Wantonness and Ease!Whom Slumber soothes not--Pleasure cannot please--Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,The exulting sense--the pulse's maddening play,That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?That for itself can woo the approaching fight,And turn what some deem danger to delight;That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,And where the feebler faint can only feel--Feel--to the rising bosom's inmost core,Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?No dread of Death--if with us die our foes--Save that it seems even duller than repose;Come when it will--we snatch the life of Life--When lost--what recks it by disease or strife?Let him who crawls, enamoured of decay,Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;hkHeave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed,--While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,Ours with one pang--one bound--escapes control.His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.For us, even banquets fond regret supplyIn the red cup that crowns our memory;And the brief epitaph in Danger's day,When those who win at length divide the prey,And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,How had the brave who fell exulted now!"

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isleAround the kindling watch-fire rang the while:Such were the sounds that thrilled the rocks along,And unto ears as rugged seemed a song!In scattered groups upon the golden sand,They game--carouse--converse--or whet the brand;Select the arms--to each his blade assign,And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar,While others straggling muse along the shore;For the wild bird the busy springes set,Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net:Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil,And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil:No matter where--their chief's allotment this;Theirs to believe no prey nor plan amiss.But who that Chief? his name on every shoreIs famed and feared--they ask and know no moreWith these he mingles not but to command;Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,But they forgive his silence for success.Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill,That goblet passes him untasted still--And for his fare--the rudest of his crewWould that, in turn, have passed untasted too;Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots,And scarce the summer luxury of fruits,His short repast in humbleness supplyWith all a hermit's board would scarce deny.But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,His mind seems nourished by that abstinence."Steer to that shore!"--they sail. "Do this!"--'tis done:"Now form and follow me!"--the spoil is won.Thus prompt his accents and his actions still,And all obey and few inquire his will;To such, brief answer and contemptuous eyeConvey reproof, nor further deign reply.

"A sail!--a sail!"--a promised prize to Hope!Her nation--flag--how speaks the telescope?hlNo prize, alas! but yet a welcome sail:The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.Yes--she is ours--a home-returning bark--Blow fair, thou breeze!--she anchors ere the dark.Already doubled is the cape--our bayReceives that prow which proudly spurns the spray.How gloriously her gallant course she goes!Her white wings flying--never from her foes--She walks the waters like a thing of Life!And seems to dare the elements to strife.Who would not brave the battle-fire, the wreck,To move the monarch of her peopled deck!

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings:The sails are furled; and anchoring round she swings;And gathering loiterers on the land discernHer boat descending from the latticed stern.'Tis manned--the oars keep concert to the strand,Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.hmHail to the welcome shout!--the friendly speech!When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;The smile, the question, and the quick reply,And the Heart's promise of festivity!

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd:The hum of voices, and the laughter loud,And Woman's gentler anxious tone is heard--Friends'--husbands'--lovers' names in each dear word:"Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success--But shall we see them? will their accents bless?From where the battle roars, the billows chafe,They doubtless boldly did--but who are safe?Here let them haste to gladden and surprise,And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!"

"Where is our Chief? for him we bear report--And doubt that joy--which hails our coming--short;Yet thus sincere--'tis cheering, though so brief;But, Juan! instant guide us to our Chief:Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return,And all shall hear what each may wish to learn."Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way,To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay,By bushy brake, the wild flowers blossoming,And freshness breathing from each silver spring,Whose scattered streams from granite basins burst,Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst;From crag to cliff they mount--Near yonder cave,What lonely straggler looks along the wave?In pensive posture leaning on the brand,Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?"'Tis he--'tis Conrad--here--as wont--alone;On--Juan!--on--and make our purpose known.The bark he views--and tell him we would greetHis ear with tidings he must quickly meet:We dare not yet approach--thou know'st his mood,When strange or uninvited steps intrude."

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent;--He spake not, but a sign expressed assent,These Juan calls--they come--to their saluteHe bends him slightly, but his lips are mute."These letters, Chief, are from the Greek--the spy,Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh:Whate'er his tidings, we can well report,Much that"--"Peace, peace!"--he cuts their prating short.Wondering they turn, abashed, while each to eachConjecture whispers in his muttering speech:They watch his glance with many a stealing look,To gather how that eye the tidings took;But, this as if he guessed, with head aside,Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride,He read the scroll--"My tablets, Juan, hark--Where is Gonsalvo?"

"In the anchored bark.""There let him stay--to him this order bear--Back to your duty--for my course prepare:Myself this enterprise to-night will share.""To-night, Lord Conrad?""Aye! at set of sun:The breeze will freshen when the day is done.My corslet--cloak--one hour and we are gone.Sling on thy bugle--see that free from rustMy carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust;Be the edge sharpened of my boarding-brand,And give its guard more room to fit my hand.This let the Armourer with speed dispose;Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes;Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired,To tell us when the hour of stay's expired."

They make obeisance, and retire in haste,Too soon to seek again the watery waste:Yet they repine not--so that Conrad guides;And who dare question aught that he decides?That man of loneliness and mystery,Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;Still sways their souls with that commanding artThat dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.What is that spell, that thus his lawless trainConfess and envy--yet oppose in vain?What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?The power of Thought--the magic of the Mind!Linked with success, assumed and kept with skill,That moulds another's weakness to its will;Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the SunThe many still must labour for the one!'Tis Nature's doom--but let the wretch who toils,Accuse not--hate not--him who wears the spoils.Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains,How light the balance of his humbler pains!

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,Demons in act, but Gods at least in face,In Conrad's form seems little to admire,Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire:Robust but not Herculean--to the sightNo giant frame sets forth his common height;Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men;They gaze and marvel how--and still confessThat thus it is, but why they cannot guess.Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and paleThe sable curls in wild profusion veil;And oft perforce his rising lip revealsThe haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.hnThough smooth his voice, and calm his general mien,Still seems there something he would not have seen:His features' deepening lines and varying hueAt times attracted, yet perplexed the view,As if within that murkiness of mindWorked feelings fearful, and yet undefined;Such might it be--that none could truly tell--Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell.There breathe but few whose aspect might defyThe full encounter of his searching eye;He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seekhoTo probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,At once the observer's purpose to espy,And on himself roll back his scrutiny,Lest he to Conrad rather should betraySome secret thought, than drag that Chief's to day.There was a laughing Devil in his sneer,That raised emotions both of rage and fear;And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,Hope withering fled--and Mercy sighed farewell!

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,Within--within--'twas there the spirit wrought!Love shows all changes--Hate, Ambition, Guile,Betray no further than the bitter smile;The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrownAlong the governed aspect, speak aloneOf deeper passions; and to judge their mien,He, who would see, must be himself unseen.Then--with the hurried tread, the upward eye,The clenched hand, the pause of agony,That listens, starting, lest the step too nearApproach intrusive on that mood of fear:Then--with each feature working from the heart,With feelings, loosed to strengthen--not depart,That rise--convulse--contend--that freeze or glow,hpFlush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow;Then--Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not,Behold his soul--the rest that soothes his lot!hqMark how that lone and blighted bosom searsThe scathing thought of execrated years!Behold--but who hath seen, or e'er shall see,Man as himself--the secret spirit free?

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sentTo lead the guilty--Guilt's worse instrument--His soul was changed, before his deeds had drivenHim forth to war with Man and forfeit Heaven.Warped by the world in Disappointment's school,In words too wise--in conduct there a fool;Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe,He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,And not the traitors who betrayed him still;Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better menHad left him joy, and means to give again.Feared--shunned--belied--ere Youth had lost her force,He hated Man too much to feel remorse,And thought the voice of Wrath a sacred call,To pay the injuries of some on all.He knew himself a villain--but he deemedThe rest no better than the thing he seemed;And scorned the best as hypocrites who hidThose deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.He knew himself detested, but he knewThe hearts that loathed him, crouched and dreaded too.Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exemptFrom all affection and from all contempt:His name could sadden, and his acts surprise;But they that feared him dared not to despise:Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wakeThe slumbering venom of the folded snake:The first may turn, but not avenge the blow;The last expires, but leaves no living foe;Fast to the doomed offender's form it clings,And he may crush--not conquer--still it stings!

None are all evil--quickening round his heart,One softer feeling would not yet depart;Oft could he sneer at others as beguiledBy passions worthy of a fool or child;Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,And even in him it asks the name of Love!Yes, it was love--unchangeable--unchanged,Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;Though fairest captives daily met his eye,He shunned, nor sought, but coldly passed them by;Though many a beauty drooped in prisoned bower,None ever soothed his most unguarded hour,Yes--it was Love--if thoughts of tenderness,Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress,Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,And yet--Oh more than all!--untired by Time;Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,Could render sullen were She near to smile,Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to ventOn her one murmur of his discontent;Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove--If there be Love in mortals--this was Love!He was a villain--aye, reproaches showerOn him--but not the Passion, nor its power,Which only proved--all other virtues gone--Not Guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!hr

He paused a moment--till his hastening menPassed the first winding downward to the glen."Strange tidings!--many a peril have I passed,Nor know I why this next appears the last!Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,Nor shall my followers find me falter here.'Tis rash to meet--but surer death to waitTill here they hunt us to undoubted fate;And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile,We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile.Aye, let them slumber--peaceful be their dreams!Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beamsAs kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!)To warm these slow avengers of the seas.Now to Medora--Oh! my sinking heart,hsLong may her own be lighter than thou art!Yet was I brave--mean boast where all are brave!Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save.This common courage which with brutes we share,That owes its deadliest efforts to Despair,Small merit claims--but 'twas my nobler hopeTo teach my few with numbers still to cope;Long have I led them--not to vainly bleed:No medium now--we perish or succeed!So let it be--it irks not me to die;But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly.My lot hath long had little of my care,But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare:Is this my skill? my craft? to set at lastHope, Power and Life upon a single cast?Oh, Fate!--accuse thy folly--not thy fate;She may redeem thee still--nor yet too late."

Thus with himself communion held he, tillHe reached the summit of his tower-crowned hill:There at the portal paused--for wild and softHe heard those accents never heard too oft!Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung,And these the notes his Bird of Beauty sung:

"Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,Lonely and lost to light for evermore,Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,Then trembles into silence as before.

"There, in its centre, a sepulchral lampBurns the slow flame, eternal--but unseen;Which not the darkness of Despair can damp,Though vain its ray as it had never been.

"Remember me--Oh! pass not thou my graveWithout one thought whose relics there recline:The only pang my bosom dare not braveMust be to find forgetfulness in thine.

"My fondest--faintest--latest accents hear--htGrief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;Then give me all I ever asked--a tear,The first--last--sole reward of so much love!"

He passed the portal, crossed the corridor,And reached the chamber as the strain gave o'er:"My own Medora! sure thy song is sad--"

"In Conrad's absence would'st thou have it glad?Without thine ear to listen to my lay,Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray:Still must each accent to my bosom suit,My heart unhushed--although my lips were mute!Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined,My dreaming fear with storms hath winged the wind,And deemed the breath that faintly fanned thy sailThe murmuring prelude of the ruder gale;Though soft--it seemed the low prophetic dirge,That mourned thee floating on the savage surge:Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire;And many a restless hour outwatched each star,And morning came--and still thou wert afar.Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,And day broke dreary on my troubled view,And still I gazed and gazed--and not a prowWas granted to my tears--my truth--my vow!At length--'twas noon--I hailed and blest the mastThat met my sight--it neared--Alas! it passed!Another came--Oh God! 'twas thine at last!Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne'er,My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share?Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a homeAs bright as this invites us not to roam:Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear,I only tremble when thou art not here;Then not for mine, but that far dearer life,Which flies from love and languishes for strife--How strange that heart, to me so tender still,Should war with Nature and its better will!"

"Yea, strange indeed--that heart hath long been changed;Worm-like 'twas trampled--adder-like avenged--Without one hope on earth beyond thy love,And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above.Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn,My very love to thee is hate to them,So closely mingling here, that disentwined,I cease to love thee when I love Mankind:Yet dread not this--the proof of all the pastAssures the future that my love will last;But--Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart;This hour again--but not for long--we part."

"This hour we part!--my heart foreboded this:Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.This hour--it cannot be--this hour away!Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay:Her consort still is absent, and her crewHave need of rest before they toil anew;My Love! thou mock'st my weakness; and wouldst steelMy breast before the time when it must feel;But trifle now no more with my distress,Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness.Be silent, Conrad!--dearest! come and shareThe feast these hands delighted to prepare;Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare!See, I have plucked the fruit that promised best,And where not sure, perplexed, but pleased, I guessedAt such as seemed the fairest; thrice the hillMy steps have wound to try the coolest rill;Yes! thy Sherbet to-night will sweetly flow,See how it sparkles in its vase of snow!The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers;Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears:Think not I mean to chide--for I rejoiceWhat others deem a penance is thy choice.But come, the board is spread; our silver lampIs trimmed, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp:Then shall my handmaids while the time along,And join with me the dance, or wake the song;Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear,Shall soothe or lull--or, should it vex thine ear,We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told,Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.Why, thou wert worse than he who broke his vowTo that lost damsel, should thou leave me now--Or even that traitor chief--I've seen thee smile,When the clear sky showed Ariadne's Isle,Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while:And thus half sportive--half in fear--I said,Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread,Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main:And he deceived me--for--he came again!"

"Again, again--and oft again--my Love!If there be life below, and hope above,He will return--but now, the moments bringThe time of parting with redoubled wing:The why, the where--what boots it now to tell?Since all must end in that wild word--Farewell!Yet would I fain--did time allow--disclose--Fear not--these are no formidable foes!And here shall watch a more than wonted guard,For sudden siege and long defence prepared:Nor be thou lonely, though thy Lord's away,Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay;And this thy comfort--that, when next we meet,Security shall make repose more sweet.List!--'tis the bugle!"--Juan shrilly blew--"One kiss--one more--another--Oh! Adieu!"She rose--she sprung--she clung to his embrace,Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face:He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye,Which downcast drooped in tearless agony.Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms,In all the wildness of dishevelled charms;Scarce beat that bosom where his image dweltSo full--that feeling seem'd almost unfelt!Hark--peals the thunder of the signal-gun!It told 'twas sunset, and he cursed that sun.Again--again--that form he madly pressed,Which mutely clasped, imploringly caressed!huAnd tottering to the couch his bride he bore,One moment gazed--as if to gaze no more;Felt that for him Earth held but her alone,Kissed her cold forehead--turned--is Conrad gone?

"And is he gone?"--on sudden solitudeHow oft that fearful question will intrude!"'Twas but an instant past, and here he stood!And now"--without the portal's porch she rushed,And then at length her tears in freedom gushed;Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell;But still her lips refused to send--"Farewell!"For in that word--that fatal word--howe'erWe promise--hope--believe--there breathes Despair.O'er every feature of that still, pale face,Had Sorrow fixed what Time can ne'er erase:The tender blue of that large loving eyeGrew frozen with its gaze on vacancy,Till--Oh, how far!--it caught a glimpse of him,And then it flowed, and phrensied seemed to swimThrough those long, dark, and glistening lashes dewedWith drops of sadness oft to be renewed."He's gone!"--against her heart that hand is driven,Convulsed and quick--then gently raised to Heaven:She looked and saw the heaving of the main:The white sail set--she dared not look again;But turned with sickening soul within the gate--"It is no dream--and I am desolate!"

From crag to crag descending, swiftly spedStern Conrad down, nor once he turned his head;But shrunk whene'er the windings of his wayForced on his eye what he would not survey,His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep,That hailed him first when homeward from the deep:And she--the dim and melancholy Star,Whose ray of Beauty reached him from afar,On her he must not gaze, he must not think--There he might rest--but on Destruction's brink:Yet once almost he stopped--and nearly gaveHis fate to chance, his projects to the wave:But no--it must not be--a worthy chiefMay melt, but not betray to Woman's grief.He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind,And sternly gathers all his might of mind:Again he hurries on--and as he hearsThe clang of tumult vibrate on his ears,The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore,The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar;As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast,The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast,The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urgeThat mute Adieu to those who stem the surge;And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft,He marvelled how his heart could seem so soft.Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast,He feels of all his former self possest;He bounds--he flies--until his footsteps reachThe verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach,There checks his speed; but pauses less to breatheThe breezy freshness of the deep beneath,Than there his wonted statelier step renew;Nor rush, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view:For well had Conrad learned to curb the crowd,By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud;His was the lofty port, the distant mien,That seems to shun the sight--and awes if seen:The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye,That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy;All these he wielded to command assent:But where he wished to win, so well unbent,That Kindness cancelled fear in those who heard,And others' gifts showed mean beside his word,When echoed to the heart as from his ownHis deep yet tender melody of tone:But such was foreign to his wonted mood,He cared not what he softened, but subdued;The evil passions of his youth had madeHim value less who loved--than what obeyed.

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard.Before him Juan stands--"Are all prepared?""They are--nay more--embarked: the latest boatWaits but my chief----""My sword, and my capote."Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung,His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung:"Call Pedro here!" He comes--and Conrad bends,With all the courtesy he deigned his friends;"Receive these tablets, and peruse with care,Words of high trust and truth are graven there;Double the guard, and when Anselmo's barkArrives, let him alike these orders mark:In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shineOn our return--till then all peace be thine!"This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung,Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung.Flashed the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke,Around the waves' phosphoric brightness broke;They gain the vessel--on the deck he stands,--Shrieks the shrill whistle, ply the busy hands--He marks how well the ship her helm obeys,How gallant all her crew, and deigns to praise.His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn--Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn?Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower,And live a moment o'er the parting hour;She--his Medora--did she mark the prow?Ah! never loved he half so much as now!But much must yet be done ere dawn of day--Again he mans himself and turns away;Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends,And there unfolds his plan--his means, and ends;Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart,And all that speaks and aids the naval art;They to the midnight watch protract debate;To anxious eyes what hour is ever late?Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew,And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew;Passed the high headlands of each clustering isle,To gain their port--long--long ere morning smile:And soon the night-glass through the narrow bayDiscovers where the Pacha's galleys lay.Count they each sail, and mark how there supineThe lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine.Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow passed by,And anchored where his ambush meant to lie;Screened from espial by the jutting cape,That rears on high its rude fantastic shape.Then rose his band to duty--not from sleep--Equipped for deeds alike on land or deep;While leaned their Leader o'er the fretting flood,And calmly talked--and yet he talked of blood!

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain;He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord,The long self-exiled Chieftain, is restored:There be bright faces in the busy hall,Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;Far checkering o'er the pictured window, playsThe unwonted faggot's hospitable blaze;And gay retainers gather round the hearth,With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

The Chief of Lara is returned again:And why had Lara crossed the bounding main?Left by his Sire, too young such loss to know,Lord of himself,--that heritage of woe,That fearful empire which the human breastBut holds to rob the heart within of rest!--With none to check, and few to point in timeThe thousand paths that slope the way to crime;Then, when he most required commandment, thenHad Lara's daring boyhood governed men.jcIt skills not, boots not step by step to traceHis youth through all the mazes of its race;Short was the course his restlessness had run,jdBut long enough to leave him half undone.

And Lara left in youth his father-land;But from the hour he waved his parting handEach trace waxed fainter of his course, till allHad 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 grewCold 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,jeThe young forgot him, and the old had died;jf"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,And sighs for sables which he must not wear.jgA hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy graceThe Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;But one is absent from the mouldering file,That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.jh

He comes at last in sudden loneliness,And whence they know not, why they need not guess;They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'erNot that he came, but came not long before:No train is his beyond a single page,Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.Years had rolled on, and fast they speed awayTo those that wander as to those that stay;But lack of tidings from another climeHad lent a flagging wing to weary Time.They see, they recognise, yet almost deemThe present dubious, or the past a dream.

He lives, nor yet is past his Manhood's prime,Though seared by toil, and something touched by Time;His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot,Might be untaught him by his varied lot;Nor good nor ill of late were known, his nameMight yet uphold his patrimonial fame:His soul in youth was haughty, but his sinsNo more than pleasure from the stripling wins;And such, if not yet hardened in their course,Might be redeemed, nor ask a long remorse.

And they indeed were changed--'tis quickly seen,Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been:That brow in furrowed lines had fixed at last,And spake of passions, but of passion past:The pride, but not the fire, of early days,Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise;A high demeanour, and a glance that tookTheir thoughts from others by a single look;And that sarcastic levity of tongue,The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,That darts in seeming playfulness around,And makes those feel that will not own the wound;All these seemed his, and something more beneathThan glance could well reveal, or accent breathe.Ambition, Glory, Love, the common aim,That some can conquer, and that all would claim,Within his breast appeared no more to strive,Yet seemed as lately they had been alive;And some deep feeling it were vain to traceAt moments lightened o'er his livid face.

Not much he loved long question of the past,Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast,In those far lands where he had wandered lone,And--as himself would have it seem--unknown:Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan,Nor glean experience from his fellow man;But what he had beheld he shunned to show,As hardly worth a stranger's care to know;If still more prying such inquiry grew,His brow fell darker, and his words more few.

Not unrejoiced to see him once again,Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men;Born of high lineage, linked in high command,He mingled with the Magnates of his land;Joined the carousals of the great and gay,And saw them smile or sigh their hours away;But still he only saw, and did not share,The common pleasure or the general care;He did not follow what they all pursuedWith hope still baffled still to be renewed;Nor shadowy Honour, nor substantial Gain,Nor Beauty's preference, and the rival's pain:Around him some mysterious circle thrownRepelled approach, and showed him still alone;Upon his eye sat something of reproof,That kept at least Frivolity aloof;And things more timid that beheld him nearIn silence gazed, or whispered mutual fear;And they the wiser, friendlier few confessedThey deemed him better than his air expressed.

Twas strange--in youth all action and all life,Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife;Woman--the Field--the Ocean, all that gavePromise of gladness, peril of a grave,In turn he tried--he ransacked all below,And found his recompense in joy or woe,No tame, trite medium; for his feelings soughtIn that intenseness an escape from thought:jiThe Tempest of his Heart in scorn had gazedOn that the feebler Elements hath raised;The Rapture of his Heart had looked on high,And asked if greater dwelt beyond the sky:Chained to excess, the slave of each extreme,How woke he from the wildness of that dream!Alas! he told not--but he did awakeTo curse the withered heart that would not break.

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man,With eye more curious he appeared to scan,And oft in sudden mood, for many a day,From all communion he would start away:And then, his rarely called attendants said,Through night's long hours would sound his hurried treadO'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frownedIn rude but antique portraiture around:They heard, but whispered--"that must not be known--The sound of words less earthly than his own.jjYes, they who chose might smile, but some had seenThey scarce knew what, but more than should have been.Why gazed he so upon the ghastly headWhich hands profane had gathered from the dead,That still beside his opened volume lay,As if to startle all save him away?Why slept he not when others were at rest?Why heard no music, and received no guest?All was not well, they deemed--but where the wrong?Some knew perchance--but 'twere a tale too long;And such besides were too discreetly wise,To more than hint their knowledge in surmise;But if they would--they could"--around the boardThus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord.

It was the night--and Lara's glassy streamThe stars are studding, each with imaged beam;So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray,And yet they glide like Happiness away;Reflecting far and fairy-like from highThe immortal lights that live along the sky:Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee;Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove,And Innocence would offer to her love.These deck the shore; the waves their channel makeIn windings bright and mazy like the snake.All was so still, so soft in earth and air,You scarce would start to meet a spirit there;Secure that nought of evil could delightTo walk in such a scene, on such a night!It was a moment only for the good:So Lara deemed, nor longer there he stood,But turned in silence to his castle-gate;Such scene his soul no more could contemplate:Such scene reminded him of other days,Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze,Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now--No--no--the storm may beat upon his brow,Unfelt, unsparing--but a night like this,A night of Beauty, mocked such breast as his.

He turned within his solitary hall,And his high shadow shot along the wall:There were the painted forms of other times,'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes,Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaultsThat hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults;And half a column of the pompous page,That speeds the specious tale from age to age;Where History's pen its praise or blame supplies,And lies like Truth, and still most truly lies.He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shoneThrough the dim lattice, o'er the floor of stone,And the high fretted roof, and saints, that thereO'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer,jkReflected in fantastic figures grew,Like life, but not like mortal life, to view;His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom,And the wide waving of his shaken plume,Glanced like a spectre's attributes--and gaveHis aspect all that terror gives the grave.jl

'Twas midnight--all was slumber; the lone lightDimmed in the lamp, as both to break the night.Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall--A sound--a voice--a shriek--a fearful call!A long, loud shriek--and silence--did they hearThat frantic echo burst the sleeping ear?They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave,Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save;They come with half-lit tapers in their hands,And snatched in startled haste unbelted brands.

Cold as the marble where his length was laid,Pale as the beam that o'er his features played,Was Lara stretched; his half-drawn sabre near,Dropped it should seem in more than Nature's fear;Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now,And still Defiance knit his gathered brow;Though mixed with terror, senseless as he lay,There lived upon his lip the wish to slay;Some half formed threat in utterance there had died,Some imprecation of despairing Pride;His eye was almost sealed, but not forsook,Even in its trance, the gladiator's look,That oft awake his aspect could disclose,And now was fixed in horrible repose.They raise him--bear him;--hush! he breathes, he speaks,The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks,His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim,Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limbRecalls its function, but his words are strungIn terms that seem not of his native tongue;Distinct but strange, enough they understandTo deem them accents of another land;And such they were, and meant to meet an earThat hears him not--alas! that cannot hear!

His page approached, and he alone appearedTo know the import of the words they heard;And, by the changes of his cheek and brow,They were not such as Lara should avow,Nor he interpret,--yet with less surpriseThan those around their Chieftain's state he eyes,But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside,And in that tongue which seemed his own replied;And Lara heeds those tones that gently seemTo soothe away the horrors of his dream--If dream it were, that thus could overthrowA breast that needed not ideal woe.

Whate'er his frenzy dreamed or eye beheld,--If yet remembered ne'er to be revealed,--Rests at his heart: the customed morning came,And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame;And solace sought he none from priest nor leech,And soon the same in movement and in speech,As heretofore he filled the passing hours,Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers,Than these were wont; and if the coming nightAppeared less welcome now to Lara's sight,He to his marvelling vassals showed it not,Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot.In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawljmThe astonished slaves, and shun the fated hall;The waving banner, and the clapping door,The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor;The long dim shadows of surrounding trees,The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze;Aught they behold or hear their thought appals,As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls.

Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravelled gloomCame not again, or Lara could assumeA seeming of forgetfulness, that madeHis vassals more amazed nor less afraid.Had Memory vanished then with sense restored?Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lordBetrayed a feeling that recalled to theseThat fevered moment of his mind's disease.Was it a dream? was his the voice that spokeThose strange wild accents; his the cry that brokeTheir slumber? his the oppressed, o'erlaboured heartThat ceased to beat, the look that made them start?Could he who thus had suffered so forget,When such as saw that suffering shudder yet?Or did that silence prove his memory fixedToo deep for words, indelible, unmixedIn that corroding secrecy which gnawsThe heart to show the effect, but not the cause?Not so in him; his breast had buried both,Nor common gazers could discern the growthOf thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told;They choke the feeble words that would unfold.

In him inexplicably mixed appearedMuch to be loved and hated, sought and feared;Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,jnIn praise or railing ne'er his name forgot:His silence formed a theme for others' prate--They guessed--they gazed--they fain would know his fate.What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,Who walked their world, his lineage only known?A hater of his kind? yet some would say,With them he could seem gay amidst the gay;joBut owned that smile, if oft observed and near,Waned in its mirth, and withered to a sneer;That smile might reach his lip, but passed not by,Nor e'er could trace its laughter to his eye:Yet there was softness too in his regard,At times, a heart as not by nature hard,But once perceived, his Spirit seemed to chideSuch weakness, as unworthy of its pride,And steeled itself, as scorning to redeemOne doubt from others' half withheld esteem;In self-inflicted penance of a breastWhich Tenderness might once have wrung from Rest;In vigilance of Grief that would compelThe soul to hate for having loved too well.

There was in him a vital scorn of all:jpAs if the worst had fallen which could befall,He stood a stranger in this breathing world,An erring Spirit from another hurled;A thing of dark imaginings, that shapedBy choice the perils he by chance escaped;But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yetHis mind would half exult and half regret:With more capacity for love than EarthBestows on most of mortal mould and birth.His early dreams of good outstripped the truth,And troubled Manhood followed baffled Youth;With thought of years in phantom chase misspent,And wasted powers for better purpose lent;And fiery passions that had poured their wrathIn hurried desolation o'er his path,And left the better feelings all at strifejqIn wild reflection o'er his stormy life;But haughty still, and loth himself to blame,He called on Nature's self to share the shame,And charged all faults upon the fleshly formShe gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm:Till he at last confounded good and ill,And half mistook for fate the acts of will:jrToo high for common selfishness, he couldAt times resign his own for others' good,But not in pity--not because he ought,But in some strange perversity of thought,That swayed him onward with a secret prideTo do what few or none would do beside;And this same impulse would, in tempting time,Mislead his spirit equally to crime;So much he soared beyond, or sunk beneath,The men with whom he felt condemned to breathe,And longed by good or ill to separateHimself from all who shared his mortal state;His mind abhorring this had fixed her throneFar from the world, in regions of her own:Thus coldly passing all that passed below,His blood in temperate seeming now would flow:Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glowed,But ever in that icy smoothness flowed!'Tis true, with other men their path he walked,And like the rest in seeming did and talked,Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start,His Madness was not of the head, but heart;And rarely wandered in his speech, or drewHis thoughts so forth as to offend the view.

With all that chilling mystery of mien,And seeming gladness to remain unseen,He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an artOf fixing memory on another's heart:It was not love perchance--nor hate--nor aughtThat words can image to express the thought;But they who saw him did not see in vain,And once beheld--would ask of him again:And those to whom he spake remembered well,And on the words, however light, would dwell:None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwinedHimself perforce around the hearer's mind;jsThere he was stamped, in liking, or in hate,If greeted once; however brief the dateThat friendship, pity, or aversion knew,jtStill there within the inmost thought he grew.You could not penetrate his soul, but found,Despite your wonder, to your own he wound;His presence haunted still; and from the breastjuHe forced an all unwilling interest:Vain was the struggle in that mental net--His Spirit seemed to dare you to forget!

There is a festival, where knights and dames,And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims,Appear--a high-born and a welcome guestTo Otho's hall came Lara with the rest.The long carousal shakes the illumined hall,Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball;And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's trainLinks grace and harmony in happiest chain:Blest are the early hearts and gentle handsThat mingle there in well according bands;It is a sight the careful brow might smooth,And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth,And Youth forget such hour was past on earth,So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth!jv

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad,His brow belied him if his soul was sad;And his glance followed fast each fluttering fair,Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there:He leaned against the lofty pillar nigh,With folded arms and long attentive eye,Nor marked a glance so sternly fixed on his--Ill brooked high Lara scrutiny like this:At length he caught it--'tis a face unknown,But seems as searching his, and his alone;Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien,Who still till now had gazed on him unseen:At length encountering meets the mutual gazeOf keen enquiry, and of mute amaze;On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew,As if distrusting that the stranger threw;Along the stranger's aspect, fixed and stern,Flashed more than thence the vulgar eye could learn.

"'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those that heardRe-echoed fast and far the whispered word."'Tis he!"--"'Tis who?" they question far and near,Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear;So widely spread, few bosoms well could brookThe general marvel, or that single look:But Lara stirred not, changed not, the surpriseThat sprung at first to his arrested eyesSeemed now subsided--neither sunk nor raisedGlanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed;And drawing nigh, exclaimed, with haughty sneer,"'Tis he!--how came he thence?--what doth he here?"

It were too much for Lara to pass bySuch questions, so repeated fierce and high;jwWith look collected, but with accent cold,More mildly firm than petulantly bold,He turned, and met the inquisitorial tone--"My name is Lara--when thine own is known,Doubt not my fitting answer to requiteThe unlooked for courtesy of such a knight.'Tis Lara!--further wouldst thou mark or ask?I shun no question, and I wear no mask."

"Thou shunn'st no question! Ponder--is there noneThy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun?And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again!At least thy memory was not given in vain.Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt--Eternity forbids thee to forget."With slow and searching glance upon his faceGrew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could traceThey knew, or chose to know--with dubious lookHe deigned no answer, but his head he shook,And half contemptuous turned to pass away;But the stern stranger motioned him to stay.

"A word!--I charge thee stay, and answer hereTo one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer,But as thou wast and art--nay, frown not, Lord,If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word--But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down,Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown.Art thou not he? whose deeds----"jx"Whate'er I be,Words wild as these, accusers like to thee,I list no further; those with whom they weighMay hear the rest, nor venture to gainsayThe wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell,Which thus begins so courteously and well.Let Otho cherish here his polished guest,To him my thanks and thoughts shall be expressed."And here their wondering host hath interposed--"Whate'er there be between you undisclosed,This is no time nor fitting place to marThe mirthful meeting with a wordy war.If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to showWhich it befits Count Lara's ear to know,To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may bestBeseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest;I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown,Though, like Count Lara, now returned aloneFrom other lands, almost a stranger grown;And if from Lara's blood and gentle birthI augur right of courage and of worth,He will not that untainted line belie,Nor aught that Knighthood may accord, deny."

"To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied,"And here our several worth and truth be tried;I gage my life, my falchion to attestMy words, so may I mingle with the blest!"What answers Lara? to its centre shrunkHis soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk;The words of many, and the eyes of allThat there were gathered, seemed on him to fall;But his were silent, his appeared to strayIn far forgetfulness away--away--Alas! that heedlessness of all aroundBespoke remembrance only too profound.

"To-morrow!--aye, to-morrow!" further wordjyThan those repeated none from Lara heard;Upon his brow no outward passion spoke;From his large eye no flashing anger broke;Yet there was something fixed in that low tone,Which showed resolve, determined, though unknown.He seized his cloak--his head he slightly bowed,And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd;And, as he passed him, smiling met the frownWith which that Chieftain's brow would bear him down:It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling prideThat curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide;But that of one in his own heart secureOf all that he would do, or could endure.Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good?Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood?Alas! too like in confidence are each,For man to trust to mortal look or speech;From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discernTruths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn.

And Lara called his page, and went his way--Well could that stripling word or sign obey:His only follower from those climes afar,Where the Soul glows beneath a brighter star:For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung,In duty patient, and sedate though young;Silent as him he served, his faith appearsAbove his station, and beyond his years.Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land,In such from him he rarely heard command;But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come,When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home:Those accents, as his native mountains dear,Awake their absent echoes in his ear,jzFriends'--kindred's--parents'--wonted voice recall,Now lost, abjured, for one--his friend, his all:For him earth now disclosed no other guide;What marvel then he rarely left his side?

Light was his form, and darkly delicateThat brow whereon his native sun had sate,But had not marred, though in his beams he grew,The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through;Yet not such blush as mounts when health would showAll the heart's hue in that delighted glow;But 'twas a hectic tint of secret careThat for a burning moment fevered there;And the wild sparkle of his eye seemed caughtFrom high, and lightened with electric thought,kaThough its black orb those long low lashes' fringeHad tempered with a melancholy tinge;Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there,Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share:And pleased not him the sports that please his age,The tricks of Youth, the frolics of the Page;For hours on Lara he would fix his glance,As all-forgotten in that watchful trance;And from his chief withdrawn, he wandered lone,Brief were his answers, and his questions none;His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book;His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook:He seemed, like him he served, to live apartFrom all that lures the eye, and fills the heart;To know no brotherhood, and take from earthNo gift beyond that bitter boon--our birth.

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara; but was shownHis faith in reverence and in deeds alone;In mute attention; and his care, which guessedEach wish, fulfilled it ere the tongue expressed.Still there was haughtiness in all he did,A spirit deep that brooked not to be chid;His zeal, though more than that of servile hands,kbIn act alone obeys, his air commands;As if 'twas Lara's less than his desireThat thus he served, but surely not for hire.Slight were the tasks enjoined him by his Lord,To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword;To tune his lute, or, if he willed it more,kcOn tomes of other times and tongues to pore;But ne'er to mingle with the menial train,To whom he showed nor deference nor disdain,But that well-worn reserve which proved he knewNo sympathy with that familiar crew:His soul, whate'er his station or his stem,Could bow to Lara, not descend to them.Of higher birth he seemed, and better days,Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays,So femininely white it might bespeakAnother sex, when matched with that smooth cheek,But for his garb, and something in his gaze,More wild and high than Woman's eye betrays;A latent fierceness that far more becameHis fiery climate than his tender frame:True, in his words it broke not from his breast,But from his aspect might be more than guessed.kdKaled his name, though rumour said he boreAnother ere he left his mountain-shore;For sometimes he would hear, however nigh,That name repeated loud without reply,As unfamiliar--or, if roused again,Start to the sound, as but remembered then;Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake,For then--ear--eyes--and heart would all awake.

He had looked down upon the festive hall,And mark'd that sudden strife so marked of all:And when the crowd around and near him toldkeTheir wonder at the calmness of the bold,Their marvel how the high-born Lara boreSuch insult from a stranger, doubly sore,The colour of young Kaled went and came,The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame;And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threwThe sickening iciness of that cold dew,That rises as the busy bosom sinksWith heavy thoughts from which Reflection shrinks.Yes--there be things which we must dream and dare,And execute ere thought be half aware:Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enowTo seal his lip, but agonise his brow.He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara castThat sidelong smile upon the knight he past;When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell,As if on something recognised right well:His memory read in such a meaning moreThan Lara's aspect unto others wore:Forward he sprung--a moment, both were gone,And all within that hall seemed left alone;Each had so fixed his eye on Lara's mien,All had so mixed their feelings with that scene,That when his long dark shadow through the porchNo more relieves the glare of yon high torch,Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seemTo bound as doubting from too black a dream,Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth,Because the worst is ever nearest truth.And they are gone--but Ezzelin is there,With thoughtful visage and imperious air;But long remained not; ere an hour expiredHe waved his hand to Otho, and retired.

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;The courteous host, and all-approving guest,Again to that accustomed couch must creepWhere Joy subsides, and Sorrow sighs to sleep,And Man, o'erlaboured with his Being's strife,Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life:There lie Love's feverish hope, and Cunning's guile,kfHate's working brain, and lulled Ambition's wile;O'er each vain eye Oblivion's pinions wave,And quenched Existence crouches in a grave.kgWhat better name may Slumber's bed become?Night's sepulchre, the universal home,Where Weakness--Strength--Vice--Virtue--sunk supine,Alike in naked helplessness recline;Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath,Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of Death,And shun--though Day but dawn on ills increased--That sleep,--the loveliest, since it dreams the least.