Page:The Corsair (Byron).djvu/81

 So throbb'd each vein—each thought—till then withstood;

Her own dark soul—these words at once subdued—

She totters—falls—and senseless had the wave

Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave;

But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,

They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:

Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,

Raise—fan—sustain—till life returns anew;

Awake her handmaids—with the matrons leave

That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;

Then seek Anselmo's cavern to report

The tale too tedious—when the triumph short.

IV.

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange,

With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge;

All, save repose or flight—still lingering there

Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair;

Whate'er his fate—the breasts he form'd and led,

Will save him living, or appease him dead.

Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few,

Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true.