CORSAIR life.

(CORSAIR, Canto i. Stanza I.)

O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts are 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 range
From 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

Feel

can only feelto 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 enamour'd of decay

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;

Heave 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 loath'd 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 supply
In 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!

PARTING OF CONRAD AND MEDORA.

(CORSAIR, Canto i. Stanzas 14, 15.)

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.
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 that feeling seem'd almost unfelt!
Hark ·peals the thunder of the signal-gun!
It told 't was sunset and he cursed that sun.

Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd!
And 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,

Kiss'd her cold forehead-turn'd-is Conrad gone?

"And is he gone?”- on sudden solitude

How oft that fearful question will intrude!

"'T was but an instant past - and here he stood!
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

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,

Till-Oh, how far!-it caught a glimpse of him,
And then it flow'd- and frenzied 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,
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!"

CONRAD'S RETURN.

(CORSAIR, Canto iii. Stanzas 19-21.)

THE lights are high on beacon and from bower,
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:
He looks in vain 't is strange - and all remark,
Amid so many, hers alone is dark.

'T is strange of yore its welcome never fail'd,
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd.
With the first boat descends he for the shore,
And looks impatient on the lingering oar.
Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,
To bear him like an arrow to that height!
With the first pause the resting rowers gave,
He waits not looks not leaps into the wave,

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high Ascends the path familiar to his eye.

He reach'd his turret door - he paused

no sound

Broke from within; and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly -

footstep nor reply
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;
He knock'd - but faintly — for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens- 't is a well-known face
But not the form he panted to embrace.
Its lips are silent - twice his own essay'd,
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd;
He snatch'd the lamp - its light will answer all
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall.

He would not wait for that reviving ray

As soon could he have linger'd there for day;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor,
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor;

-

His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not

He turn'd not

- yet foretold!

-spoke not - sunk not - fix'd his look,

And set the anxious frame that lately shook:
He gazed how long we gaze despite of pain,
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain!
In life itself she was so still and fair,

That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veil'd thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below —
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips —
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,
And wish'd repose
but only for a while;
But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long- fair- but spread in utter lifelessness,
Which, late the sport of every summer wind,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;
These - and the pale pure cheek, became the bier
But she is nothing— wherefore is he here?