Page:The Corsair (Byron).djvu/41

Rh The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore,

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar—

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast,

The anchor's rise, the sails unfurling fast,

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge

That mute adieu to those who stem the surge;

And more than all—his blood-red flag aloft—

He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft.

Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast,

He feels of all his former self possest;

He bounds—he flies—until his footsteps reach

The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach,

There checks his speed; but pauses less to breathe

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath,

Than there his wonted statelier step renew;

Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view:

For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd,

By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud;

His was the lofty port, the distant mien,

That seems to shun the sight—and awes if seen:

The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye,

That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy;