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26 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate—

"It is no dream—and I am desolate!"

XVI.

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,

That hailed 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—

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,

And sternly gathers all his might of mind:

Again he hurries on—and as he hears

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears,