grave:

While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound
escapes controul.
His corse may boast it's urn and narrow cave,
And they who loath'd his life may gild his
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!"

The description and character of Conrad (the Corsair) form the next passage that attracts notice :

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face,
In Conrad's form seems little to admire,
Though his dark eye-brow shades a glance of fire:
Robust but not Herculean-to the sight
No giant frame sets forth his common height;
Yet in the whole - who paused to look again
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men
They gaze and marvel how and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.
Sun-burnt his cheek-his forehead, high and pale,
The sable curls in wild profusion veil ;

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien,
Still seems there something he would not have seen :
His feature's deepening lines and varying hue,
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view,
As if within that murkiness of mind
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined:
Such might it be that none could truly tell.
Too close enquiry his stern glance could quell.
There breathe but few whose aspect could defy
The full encounter of his searching eye;
He had the skill, when cunning's gaze would seek
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,
At once the observer's purpose to espy,
And on himself roll back his scrutiny,
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray

Some secret thought-than drag that chief's to day.
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled- and Mercy sighed farewell!
Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,
Within within-'twas there the spirit wrought!

Love shows all changes-hate, ambition, guile,
Betray no further than the bitter smile;
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,
He, who would see, must be himself unseen.
Then with the hurried step, the upward eye,
The clenched hand, the pause of agony,

-

That listens, starting, lest the step too near
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear:
Then with each feature working from the heart,
With feelings loosed to strengthen not depart
That rise-convulse-subside that freeze, or glow,
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow,
Then Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not,
Behold his soul- the rest that soothes his lot!
Mark-how that lone and blighted bosom sears
The scathing thought of execrated years!
Behold but who hath seen, or e'er shall see,
Men as himself the secret spirit free?'

We think that the close of this delineation is peculiarly fine, though the diction of a part of it is too involved and obscure. The words speak alone' must be understood to mean, "are the only marks which bespeak." The dark side of the character is continued through another page: we extract the conclusion of it.

" 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

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 surprize;
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise:
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake
The slumbering venom of the folded snake.'

The picture is now changed, and Conrad's better passion is thus described:

6 None are all evil-clinging round his heart,
One softer feeling would not yet depart;
Oft could he sneer at others as beguil'd
By passions worthy of a fool or child-
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

Though fairest captives daily met his eye,

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,
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
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 remov'd-nor menaced to remove-
If there be love in mortals-this was love!
He was a villain-aye-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!'

Throughout the parting scene, between Conrad and his be loved Medora, in the first canto, we have many tender passages; and the pictures of each of them immediately afterward, displaying the fearful and despairing agony of Medora, and the resolution of Conrad, hurried on lest it should fail, are most happily conceived and executed. The expression of his feeling, when from the sea

His eyes beheld his rocky tower,

And lived a moment o'er the parting hour;
She-his Medora-did she mark the prow?
Ah! never loved he half so much as now,'

strikes at once to the heart, and reminds it of a sentiment often felt, but not often before expressed.

Canto II. opens with an animated description of a fleet of Turkish gallies, preparing in Coron's bay' for an expedition to the Pirates' Isle. Their purpose, however, is defeated by the arrival of Conrad to attack them; and the pirates, becoming the assailants, oblige them to commence the war on their own ground. Here Lord Byron has again given a lively delineation of a night-action :

The wild confusion and the swarthy glow

Of flames on high and torches from below;'

with the firing of the fleet of the Turks, and the intrusion on their banquet :

Now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, And burst within-and it were death to wait; REV. FEB. 1814.

Where

Where wild Amazement shrieking-kneeling- throws
The sword aside-in vain—the blood o'erflows!

The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within,
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din

Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life,
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife.
They shout to find him grim and lonely there,
A glutted tyger mangling in his lair!

But short their greeting-shorter his reply-
""Tis well-but Seyd escapes-and he must die.
Much hath been done-but more remains to do
Their galleys blaze-why not their city too?"
• Quick at the word-they seized him each a torch,
And fire the dome from minaret to porch.

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye,
But sudden sunk-for on his ear the cry
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell
Knock'd at that heart unmov'd by battle's yell.
"Oh! burst the Haram-wrong not on your lives
One female form-remember-we have wives.
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay;
Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay :
But still we spared-must spare the weaker prey.
Oh! I forgot-but Heaven will not forgive
If at my word the helpless cease to live;
Follow who will-I go-we yet have time
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime."
He climbs the crackling stair-he bursts the door,
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor;
His breath choak'd gasping with the volumed smoke,
But still from room to room his way he broke :
They search-they find-they save: with lusty arms
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms;
Calm their loud fears; sustain their sinking frames
With all the care defenceless beauty claims:
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood,
And check the very hands with gore imbrued.'
Conrad, in course, carries off

The love of him he dooms to bleed,

The Haram queen-but still the slave of Seyd.'

The Turks, however, rally; and, after a severe and obstinate resistance, all the pirates being destroyed or wounded, Conrad is made prisoner, confined in a lonely tower, and condemned to the torture as soon as the state of his wounds will allow him to bear it. The description of his feelings is another display of the author's acquaintance with the workings of the heart; and, though the subject is trite, it has seldom been depicted with so much force as in the following lines:

• There

• There is a war, a chaos of the mind,

t!

When all its elements convuls'd-combined-
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse;
That juggling fiend-who never spake before-
But cries, "I warn'd thee!" when the deed is o'er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe-rebel--the weak alone repent
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And to itself all-all that self reveals,
No single passion, and no ruling thought
That leaves the rest at once unseen, unsought,
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews-
All rushing through their thousand avenues-
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret,
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset;

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;
The hopeless past-the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven;

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remembered not
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern reflection each a crime;
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd,

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd-
All-in a word-from which all eyes must start,
That opening sepulchre-the naked heart
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake,

To snatch the mirror from the soul-and break.'

The representation of his sleep in the dungeon is apparently borrowed from the well known anecdote of the Duke of Argyle, so beautifully described by Mr. Fox.

From the opening of the third canto, we select a passage which will perhaps be deemed the most interesting in the poem. It is an address to Athens, and is entirely equal to those which refer to Greece in "The Giaour," and to the Plain of Troy in "The Bride of Abydos." In a note subjoined, Lord Byron informs us that these lines were written on the spot; and they possess all the life and vigour of a sketch from

nature:

'Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not as in northern climes obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old gina's rock, and Idra's isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;

O'or