And sometimes with the wisest and the best,

Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, Till even the scaffold 1 echoes with their jest ! And struggle not to feel averse in vain; Yet not the joy to which it seems akin

But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, It may deceive all hearts, save that within.

And hide from one – perhaps another there. Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now

He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold A laughing wildness half unbent his brow:

Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken'd- calmly cold : And these his accents had a sound of mirth,

And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight As if the last he could enjoy on earth;

From one I never loved enough to hate.
Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, No warmth these lips return by his imprest,
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest.

Yes – had I ever proved that passion's zeal,
XIV.

The change to hatred were at least to feel : “ Corsair! thy doom is named — but I have power But still — he goes unmourn'd— returns unsoughtTo soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.

And oft when present — absent from my thought. Thee would I spare - nay more-would save thee now, Or when reflection comes — and come it must But this—time — hope—nor even thy strength allow; I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust; But all I can, I will: at least, delay

I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. More now were ruin - even thyself were loth Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." Or seek another and give mine release,

But yesterday — I could have said, to peace !
“ Yes !- loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign,
Or fall’n too low to fear a further fall :

Remember — captive! 't is to break thy chain;
Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope, Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : To give thee back to all endear'd below,
Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly,

Who share such love as I can never know.
The one of all my band that would not die ?

Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away:
Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 'T will cost me dear — but dread no death to-day!"
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs.
My sole resources in the path I trod (God !

xv.
Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart,
The last I left in youth — he leaves me now - And bow'd her head, and turn d her to depart,
And Man but works his will to lay me low.

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.
I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer

And was she here? and is he now alone ? Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain ? It is enough - I breathe — and I can bear.

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain,
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand
That might have better kept so true a brand;

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's

mine,
My bark is sunk or captive — but my love -
For her in sooth my voice would mount above :

Already polish'd by the hand divine !
Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind -
And this will break a heart so more than kind,

Oh! too convincing — dangerously dear -
And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare ! In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair."

That weapon of her weakness she can wield,

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield: “ Thou lov'st another then ? - but what to me Avoid it - Virtue ebbs and Wisdom erts, Is this — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be :

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! But yet — thou lov’st — and — Oh! I envy those

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly? Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose,

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. Who never feel the void — the wandering thought Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought.” By this — how many lose not earth – Lut heaven!

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, “ Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe. This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb."

XVI.
“ My love stern Seyd's! Oh-No-No—not my love-- | 'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove The beams — without the hope of yesterday.
To meet his passion — but it would not be.

What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing,
I felt - I feel — love dwells with — with the free. O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing,
I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best,

By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt; To share his splendour, and seem very blest !

While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, Oft must my soul the question undergo,

Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb, Of — Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer, No!' Refreshing earth – reviving all but him !

1 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and a fashion to leare some "mot " as a legacy; and the quantity Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she of facetious last words spoken during that period would form remarked, that it " was too slender to trouble the headsman

a melancholy jest book of a considerable size. much." During one part of the French Revolution, it became

falls

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray -
That deem'd not till they found their energy.

Watch'd — follow'd - he were then an easier prey; While yet was Hope — they soften'd - Autter'd But once cut off - the remnant of his band wept

Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand."
All lost that softness died not - but it slept ;
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,

“ Gulnare ! - if for each drop of blood a gem “ With nothing left to love there's nougbt to

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; dread."

If for each hair of his a massy mine 'Tis more than nature's; like the burning might

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; Delirium gathers from the fever's height.

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream

Of wealth were here - that gold should not redeem ! “ Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell

It had not now redeem'd a single hour; What — speak not breathe not for I know it

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; Yet would I ask almost my lip denies (well

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still The - quick your answer — tell me where he lies.”

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill.” “ Lady! we know not — scarce with life we fled; But here is one denies that he is dead:

" Nay, Seyd! - I seek not to restrain thy rage, He saw him bound; and bleeding - but alive." Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ;

My thoughts were only to secure for thee
She heard no further - 't was in vain to strive – His riches — thus released, he were not free :
So throbb'd each vein – each thought - till then Disabled, shorn of half his might and band,
withstood;

His capture could but wait thy first command."
Her own dark soul – these words at once subdued :
She totters

and senseless had the wave Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave;

“ His capture could ! — and shall I then resign

One day to him the wretch already mine? But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,

Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine ! They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies :

Fair suitor! — to thy virtuous gratitude, Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, Raise – fan sustain till life returns anew;

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave

No doubt - regardless if the prize were fair, That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;

My thanks and praise alike are due - now hear ! Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : The tale too tedious — when the triumph short.

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard.
IV.

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange,

Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ;

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, All, save repose or flight : still lingering there

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ;

Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware : Whate'er his fate – the breasts he form'd and led,

'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! Will save him living, or appease him dead.

Another word and - nay — I need no more. Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few,

Accursed was the moment when he bore Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true.

Thee from the flames, which better far — but-no

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe -
V.

Now 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! Within the Haram's secret chamber sate !

Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; In words alone I am not wont to chafe : His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell,

Look to thyself - nor deem thy falsehood safe ! ” Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind; He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, While many an anxious glance her large dark eye Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : Sends in its idle search for sympathy,

Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, ?

Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; But inly views his victim as he bleeds.

And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare !

When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. " Pacha! the day is thine ; and on thy crest

His doubts appear'd to wrong - nor yet she knew Sits Triumph Conrad taken — fall’n the rest ! How deep the root from whence compassion grew His doom is fix'd - he dies : and well his fate

She was a slave — from such may captives claim Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; Methinks, a short release, for ransom told

Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;

Again she ventured on the dangerous path, Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard

Again his rage repellid — until arose Would that of this my Pacha were the lord !

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes !

Ir The whole of this section was added in the course of printing.)

? The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are ia number ninety-nine.