The sails are furl’d; and anchoring round she swings: | |
And gathering loiterers on the land discern | |
100 | Her boat descending from the latticed stern. |
’Tis mann’d – the oars keep concert to the strand, | |
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. | |
Hail to the welcome shout! – the friendly speech! | |
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach; | |
105 | The smile, the question, and the quick reply, |
And the heart’s promise of festivity! | |
V | |
The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd: | |
The hum of voices and the laughter loud | |
And woman’s gentler anxious tone is heard – | |
110 | 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? | |
115 | Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, |
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!’ | |
VI | |
‘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; | |
120 | 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, | |
125 | By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, |
And freshness breathing from each silver spring, | |
Whose scatter’d streams from granite basins burst, | |
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst; | |
From crag to cliff they mount – Near yonder cave, | |
130 | 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 | |
135 | The bark he views – and tell him we would greet |
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet: | |
We dare not yet approach – thou know’st his mood, | |
When strange or uninvited steps intrude.’ | |
VII | |
Him Juan sought, and told of their intent; – | |
140 | He spake not – but a sign expressed assent. |
These Juan calls – they come – to their salute | |
He 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: | |
145 | Whate’er his tidings, we can well report, |
Much that’ – ‘Peace, peace!’ – he cuts their prating short. | |
Wondering they turn, abash’d, while each to each | |
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: | |
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, | |
150 | To gather how that eye the tidings took; |
But, this as if guess’d, with head aside, | |
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, | |
He read the scroll – ‘My tablets Juan, hark – | |
Where is Gonsalvo? | |
‘In the anchor’d bark.’ | |
155 | ‘There let him stay – to him this order bear – |
Back to your duty – for my course prepare: | |
Myself this entreprise to-night will share.’ | |
‘To-night, Lord Conrad?’ | |
‘Ay! at set of sun: | |
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. | |
160 | My corslet – cloak – one hour – and we are gone. |
Sling on thy bugle – see that free from rust | |
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust; | |
Be the edge sharpen’d of my boarding-brand, | |
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. | |
165 | 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.’ | |
VIII | |
They make obeisance, and retire in haste, | |
170 | 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; | |
175 | Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, |
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue; | |
Still sways their souls with that commanding art | |
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. | |
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train | |
180 | Confess 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! | |
Link’d with success, assumed and kept with skill, | |
That moulds another’s weakness to its will; | |
185 | 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 sun | |
The many still must labour for the one! | |
’Tis Nature’s doom – but let the wretch who toils, | |
190 | Accuse not hate not |
Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains | |
How light the balance of his humbler pains! | |
IX | |
Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, | |
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, | |
195 | In Conrad’s form seems little to admire |
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire: | |
Robust but not Herculean – to the sight | |
No giant frame sets forth his common height; | |
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, | |
200 | Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men; |
They gaze and marvel how – and still confess | |
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. | |
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale | |
The sable curls in wild profusion veil; | |
205 | And oft perforce his rising lip reveals |
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. | |
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, | |
Still seems there something he would not have seen: | |
His features’ deepening lines and varying hue | |
210 | At times attracted, yet perplex’d the view, |
As if within that murkiness of mind | |
Work’d feelings fearful, and yet undefined; | |
Such might it be – that none could truly tell – | |
Too close enquiry his stern glance would quell. | |
215 | There breathe but few whose aspect might defy |
The full encounter of his searching eye: | |
He had the skill, when Cunning’s gaze would seek | |
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, | |
At once the observer’s purpose to espy, | |
220 | And on himself roll back his scrutiny, |
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray | |
Some 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; | |
225 | And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, |
Hope withering fled – and Mercy sigh’d farewell! | |
X | |
Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, | |
Within – within – ’twas there the spirit wrought! | |
Love shows all changes – Hate, Ambition, Guile, | |
230 | Betray no further than the bitter smile; |
The lip’s least curl, the lightest paleness thrown | |
Along the govern’d aspect, speak alone | |
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, | |
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. | |
235 | Then – with the hurried tread, the upward eye, |
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, | |
That listens, starting, lest the step too near | |
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: | |
Then – with each feature working from the heart, | |
240 | With feelings loosed to strengthen – not depart: |
That rise – convulse – contend – that freeze or glow, | |
Flush 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! | |
245 | Mark – how that lone and blighted bosom sears |
The scathing thought of execrated years! | |
Behold – but who hath seen, or e’er shall see, |