Man as himself – the secret spirit free? | |
XI | |
Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent | |
250 | To lead the guilty – guilt’s worst instrument – |
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven | |
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. | |
Warp’d by the world in Disappointment’s school, | |
In words too wise, in conduct | |
255 | Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, |
Doom’d by his very virtues for a dupe, | |
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill | |
And not the traitors who betray’d him still; | |
Nor deem’d that gifts bestow’d on better men | |
260 | Had left him joy, and means to give again. |
Fear’d – shunn’d – 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. | |
265 | He knew himself a villain – but he deem’d |
The rest no better than the thing he seem’d; | |
And scorn’d the best as hypocrites who hid | |
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. | |
He knew himself detested, but he knew | |
270 | The hearts that loath’d him, crouch’d and dreaded too. |
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt | |
From all affection and from all contempt: | |
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise; | |
But they that fear’d him dared not to despise: | |
275 | Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake |
The 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 doom’d offender’s form it clings | |
280 | And he may crush – not conquer – still it stings! |
XII | |
None are all evil – quickening round his heart, | |
One softer feeling would not yet depart; | |
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled | |
By passions worthy of a fool or child; | |
285 | 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 | |
290 | He shunn’d, nor sought, but coldly pass’d them by; |
Though many a beauty droop’d in prison’d bower, | |
None ever sooth’d his most unguarded hour. | |
Yes – it was Love – if thoughts of tenderness, | |
Tried in temptation, strengthen’d by distress, | |
295 | 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 ne’er to smile, | |
Nor rage could fire nor sickness fret to vent | |
300 | On 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! | |
305 | He was a villain – ay – reproaches shower |
On him – but not the passion, nor its power, | |
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, | |
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one! | |
XIII | |
He paused a moment – till his hastening men | |
310 | Pass’d the first winding downward to the glen. |
‘Strange tidings! – many a peril have I past, | |
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. | |
315 | ’Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait |
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate; | |
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, | |
We’ll furnish mourners for our funeral pile. | |
Ay – let them slumber – peaceful be their dreams! | |
320 | Morn ne’er awoke them with such brilliant beams |
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) | |
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. | |
Now to Medora – Oh! my sinking heart | |
Long may her own be lighter than thou art! | |
325 | 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 hope | |
330 | To 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. | |
335 | 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 last | |
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? | |
Oh, Fate! – accuse thy folly, not thy fate – | |
340 | She may redeem thee still – nor yet too late.’ |
XIV | |
Thus with himself communion held he, till | |
He reach’d the summit of his tower-crown’d hill: | |
There at the portal paused – for wild and soft | |
He heard those accents never heard too oft; | |
345 | Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, |
And these the notes the bird of beauty sung: | |
1 | |
‘Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, | |
Lonely and lost to light for evermore, | |
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, | |
350 | Then trembles into silence as before. |
2 | |
‘There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp | |
Burns the slow flame, eternal – but unseen; | |
Which not the darkness of despair can damp, | |
Though vain its ray as it had never been. | |
3 | |
355 | ‘Remember me – Oh! pass not thou my grave |
Without one thought whose relics there recline: | |
The only pang my bosom dare not brave | |
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. | |
4 | |
‘My fondest – faintest – latest accents hear – | |
360 | Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove; |
Then give me all I ever ask’d – a tear, | |
The first – last – sole reward of so much love!’ | |
He pass’d the portal – cross’d the corridore, | |
And reach’d the chamber as the strain gave o’er: | |
365 | ‘My own Medora! sure thy song is sad –’ |
‘In Conrad’s absence wouldst 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, | |
370 | My heart unhush’d – although my lips were mute! |
Oh! man a niht on this lone couch reclined | |
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing’d the wind, | |
And deem’d the breath that faintly fann’d thy sail | |
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; | |
375 | Though soft, it seem’d the low prophetic dirge, |
That mourn’d 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 outwatch’d each star, | |
380 | 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 prow | |
Was granted to my tears – my truth – my vow! | |
385 | At length – ’twas noon – I hail’d and blest the mast |
That met my sight – it near’d – Alas! it past! | |
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? | |
390 | Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home |
As 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, | |
395 | 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; |