Worm-like ’twas trampled – adder-like avenged, | |
400 | 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, | |
405 | I cease to love thee when I love mankind: |
Yet dread not this – the proof of all the past | |
Assures the future that my love will last; | |
But – Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart, | |
This hour again – but not for long – we part.’ | |
410 | ‘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 anchor’d in the bay; | |
Her consort still is absent, and her crew | |
415 | Have need of rest before they toil anew: |
My love! thou mock’st my weakness; and wouldst steel | |
My breast before the time when it must feel; | |
But trifle now no more with my distress, | |
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. | |
420 | Be silent, Conrad! – dearest! come and share |
The feast these hands delighted to prepare; | |
Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare! | |
See, I have pluck’d the fruit that promised best, | |
And where not sure, perplex’d, but pleased, I guess’d | |
425 | At such as seem’d the fairest; thrice the hill |
My 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; | |
430 | Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears: |
Think not I mean to chide – for I rejoice | |
What others deem a penance is thy choice. | |
But come, the board is spread; our silver lamp | |
Is trimm’d, and heeds not the sirocco’s damp: | |
435 | 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, | |
440 | Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. |
Why – thou wert worse than he who broke his vow | |
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now; | |
Or even that traitor chief – I’ve seen thee smile, | |
When the clear sky show’d Ariadne’s Isle, | |
445 | 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!’ | |
450 | ‘Again – again – and oft again – my love! |
If there be life below, and hope above, | |
He will return – but now the moments bring | |
The time of parting with redoubled wing: | |
The why – the where – what boots it now to tell | |
455 | 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: | |
460 | 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 – | |
465 | 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 droop’d in tearless agony. | |
470 | Her long fair hair lay floating o’er his arms, |
In all the wildness of dishevell’d charms; | |
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt | |
So full – | |
Hark – peals the thunder of the signal-gun! | |
475 | It told ’twas sunset – and he cursed that sun. |
Again – again – that form he madly press’d, | |
Which mutely clasp’d, imploring caress’d! | |
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, | |
One moment gazed – as if to gaze no more; | |
480 | Felt – that for him earth held but her alone, |
Kiss’d her cold forehead – turn’d – is Conrad gone? | |
XV | |
‘And is he gone?’ – on sudden solitude | |
How oft that fearful question will intrude! | |
‘ ’Twas but an instant past – and here he stood! | |
485 | And now’ – without the portal’s porch she rush’d, |
And then at length her tears in freedom gush’d; | |
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’er | |
490 | We promise – hope – believe – there breathes despair. |
O’er every feature of that still, pale face, | |
Had sorrow fix’d what time can ne’er erase: | |
The tender blue of that large loving eye | |
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, | |
495 | Till – Oh, how far! – it caught a glimpse of him, |
And then it flow’d – and phrensied seem’d to swim | |
Through those long dark and glistening lashes dew’d | |
With drops of sadness oft to be renew’d. | |
‘He’s gone!’ – against her heart that hand is driven, | |
500 | Convulsed and quick – then gently raised to heaven; |
She look’d and saw the heaving of the main; | |
The white sail set – she dared not look again; | |
But turn’d with sickening soul within the gate – | |
‘It is no dream – and I am desolate!’ | |
XVI | |
505 | From crag to crag descending – swiftly sped |
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn’d his head; | |
But shrunk whene’er the windings of his way | |
Forced on his eye what he would not survey, | |
His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, | |
510 | That hail’d him first when homeward from the deep: |
And she - the dim and melancholy star, | |
Whose ray of beauty reach’d him from afar, | |
On her he must not gaze, he must not think, | |
There he might rest – but on Destruction’s brink: | |
515 | Yet once almost he stopp’d – and nearly gave |
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave: | |
But no – it must not be – a worthy chief | |
May melt, but not betray to woman’s grief. | |
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, | |
520 | And sternly gathers all his might of mind. |
Again he hurries on – and as he hears | |
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, | |
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, | |
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar; | |
525 | As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, |
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, | |
The wavin kerchiefs of the crowd that ure | |
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge; | |
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, | |
530 | He marvell’d 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 reach | |
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, | |
535 | There checks his speed; but pauses less to breathe |
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, | |
Than there his wonted statelier step renew; | |
Nor rush, disturb’d by haste, to vulgar view: | |
For well had Conrad learn’d to curb the crowd, | |
540 | 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; | |
545 | All these he wielded to command assent: |
But where he wished to win, so well unbent, | |
That kindness cancell’d fear in those who heard, | |
And others’ gifts show’d mean beside his word, | |
When echo’d to the heart as from his own | |
550 | His deep yet tender melody of tone: |
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, |