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The monsters of the deep are made:

each zone Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread,

fathomless, alone.

From all I may be, or have been be

fore, To mingle with the Universe, and

feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot

all conceal.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and

my joy

to me

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

SONG OF THE CORSAIRS. Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy

[The Corsair, Canto i.] I wantoned with thy breakers - they O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue

sea, Were a delight; and if the freshen- Our thoughts as boundless, and our ing sea

souls as free, Made them a terror 'twas a pleas

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows ing fear,

foam, For I was as it were a child of thee, Survey our empire, and behold our And trusted to thy billows far and

home! near,

These are our realms, no limits to their And laid my hand upon thy mane — as

sway —
I do here.

Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to


From toil to rest, and joy in every SOLITUDE.


Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious [Childe Harold, Canto iv.]

slave! OH! that the desert were my dwell- Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving-place,

ing wave; With one fair spirit for my minister, Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and That I might all forget the human

ease! race,

Whom slumber soothes not And, hating no one, love but only her!

cannot please — Ye elements !- in whose ennobling Oh, who can tell save he whose heart stir

hath tried, I feel myself exalted – Can ye not And danced in triumph o'er the waters Accord me such a being? Do I err

wide, In deeming such inhabit many a spot? | The exulting sense — the pulse's madThough with them to converse can rarely dening play, be our lot.

That thrills the wanderer of that track.

less way? There is a pleasure in the pathless That for itself can woo the approaching woods,

fight, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, And turn what some deem danger to There is society, where none intrudes,

delight; By the deep Sea, and music in its That seeks what cravens shun with more

than zeal, I love not Man the less, but Nature And where the feebler faint - can only more,

feel — From these our interviews, in which Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost I steal


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his grave :

Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? Yes, it was love unchangeable
No dread of death — if with us die our


Felt but for one from whom he never Save that it seems even duller than re

ranged; pose :

Though fairest captives daily met his Come when it will — we snatch the

eye, life of life

He shunned, nor sought, but coldly When lost - what recks it — by disease passed them by; or strife?

Though many a beauty drooped in prisLet him who crawls enamored of

oned hower, decay,

None ever soothed his most unguarded Cling to his couch, and sicken years

hour. away;

Yes — it was Love - if thoughts of tenHeave his thick breath, and shake his

derness, palsied head;

Tried in temptation, strengthened by Ours - the fresh turf, and not the fever

distress, ish bed.

Unmoved by absence, firm in every While gasp by gasp he falters forth his clime, soul,

And yet - oh, more than all! -untired Ours with one pang - one bound

by time; escapes control.

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled His corse may boast ils urn and narrow wile, cave,

Could render sullen, were she near to And they who loathed his life may gild smile;

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely

vent shed,

On her one murmur of his discontent; When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres Which still would meet with joy, with our dead.

calmness part, For us, even banquets fond regrets sup- Lest that his look of grief should reach ply

her heart; In the red cup that crowns our memory; Which nought removed, nor menaced. And the brief epitaph in danger's day,

to remove — When those who win at length divide If there be love in mortals -- this was


love! And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er

He was

villain — ay— reproaches each brow,

shower How had the brave who fell exulted On him — but not the passion, nor its now!

power, Which only proved all other virtues


Not guilt itself could quench the love[The Corsair, Canto i.]

liest one! NONE are all evil — quickening round

his heart, One softer feeling would not yet depart;

THE PARTING OF CONRAD AND Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled

MEDORA. By passions worthy of a fool or child;

[The Corsair, Canto i.] Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he

SHE rose

- she sprung - she clung to strove,

his embrace, And even in him it asks the name of Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden Love!




He dared not raise to his that deep-blue Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, eye,

Till — oh, how far !—it caught a glimpse Which downcast drooped in tearless

of him, agony.

And then it flowed - and phrensied Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his

seemed to swim, arms,

Through those long, dark, and glistenIn all the wildness of dishevelled

ing lashes dewed charms;

With drops of sadness oft to be reScarce beat that bosom where his image

newed. dwelt

“He's gone!” — against her heart that So full — that feeling seemed almost un

hand is driven, felt!

Convulsed and quick - then gently Hark - peals the thunder of the signal

raised to heaven; gun!

She looked and saw the heaving of the It told 'twas sunset and he cursed that sun.

The white sail set she dared not look Again - again - that form he madly again; pressed,

But turned with sickening soul within Which mutely clasped, imploringly ca

the gate ressed!

“ It is no dream — and I am desolate ! And tottering to the couch his bride he

bore, One moment gazed – as if to gaze no more;

SUNSET IN THE MOREA, Felt — that for him earth held but her alone,

[The Corsair, Canto iii.] Kissed her cold forehead - turned - is Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be Conrad gone?


Along Morea's hills the setting sun; “ And is he gone?” — on sudden soli- Not, as in northern climes, obscurely tude

bright, How oft that fearful question will in- But one unclouded blaze of living light! trude!

O’er the hushed deep the yellow beam “ 'Twas but an instant past — and here

he throws, he stood !

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as And now " — without the portal's porch

it glows. she rushed,

On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle, And then at length her tears in freedom The god of gladness sheds his parting gushed;

smile; Big, — bright and fast, unknown to O’er his own regions lingering, loves her they fell ;

to shine, But still her lips refused to send - Though there his altars are no more “ Farewell !”

divine. For in that word - that fatal word - Descending fast the mountain-shadows howe'er

kiss We promise — hope — believe — there Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis ! breathes despair,

Their azure arches through the long exO’er every feature of that still pale panse face,

More deeply purpled meet his mellowHad sorrow fixed what time can ne'er

ing glance, erase :

And tenderest tints, along their summits The tender blue of that large loving eye driven,


Mark his gay course, and own the hues Escaped the baffled wreath that strove of heaven,

to bind; Till, darkly shaded from the land and These, and the pale pure cheek, became deep,

the bier, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to But she is nothing - wherefore is he sleep.


He asked no question all CONRAD AND THE DEAD BODY

answered now OF MEDORA.

By the first glance on that still, marble [The Corsair, Canto iii.]

brow. He turned not-spoke not

sunk not It was enough she died what - fixed his look,

recked it how? And set the anxious frame that lately The love of youth, the hope of better shook :

years, He gazed — how long we gaze despite

The source of softest wishes, tenderest of pain,

fears, And know, but dare not own, we gaze

The only living thing he could not hate, in vain !

Was reft at once- and he deserved his In life itself she was so still and fair,

fate, That death with gentler aspect withered

But did not feel it less; – the good there;

explore, And the cold flowers her colder hand For peace, those realms where guilt can contained,

never soar; In that last grasp as tenderly were

The proud — the wayward -- who have strained

fixed below As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a

Their joy, and find this earth enough sleep, And made it almost mockery yet to

Lose in that one their all — perchance weep:

a mite The long dark lashes fringed her lids of But who in patience parts with all snow,

delight? And veiled — thought shrinks from all Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern that lurked below

Mask hearts where grief hath little left Oh! o'er the eye death most exerts his

to learn ! might,

And many a withering thought lies hid, And hurls the spirit from the throne of

not lost, light!

In smiles that least befit who wear Sinks those blue orbs in that long last

them most, eclipse, But spares, as yet, the charm around

A BUNCH OF SWEETS. Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile

[Don Juan, Canto i.] And wished repose but only for a

'Tis sweet to hear while;

At midnight on the blue and moonBut the white shroud, and each extended lit deep tress,

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, Long — fair - but spread in utter life- By distance mellowed, o'er the waters lessness,

sweep; Which, late the sport of every summer 'Tis sweet to see the evening star apwind,


for woe,

her lips

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds

creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on

high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the


By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an

end To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have

our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend : Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in bar.

rels; Dear is the helpless creature we de

fend Against the world; and dear the school

boy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are


'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's hon

est bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we

draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will

mark Our coming, and look brighter when

we come; 'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters; sweet

the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of

birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest


But sweeter still than this, than these,

than all, Is first and passionate love — it

stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been

plucked — all's known And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so

shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us

from heaven.

Sweet is the vintage, when the shower

ing grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, Purple and gushing: sweet are our es

capes From civic revelry to rural mirth; Sweet to the miser are his glittering

heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born's

birth, Sweet is revenge especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to sea




Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old

lady, Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who've made “us youth” wait too,

too long already, For an estate, or cash, or country seat, Still breaking, but with stamina so

steady, That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-damned

post-obits. 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's


[Don Juan, Canto ii.] THERE were two fathers in this ghastly

crew, And with them their two sons, of

whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the

view, But he died early; and when he was

gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who

threw One glance at him, and said,

“ Heaven's will be done! I can do nothing,” and he saw him

thrown Into the deep without a tear or groan. The other father had a weaklier child,

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate;

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