Page:The Corsair (Byron).djvu/99

Rh Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, The blue waves sport around the stern they urge; Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck— A spot—a mast—a sail—an armed deck! Their little bark her men of watch descry, And ampler canvas woos the wind from high; She bears her down majestically near, Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier; A flash is seen—the ball beyond their bow Booms harmless hissing to the deep below. Uprose keen Conrad from his silent trance, A long, long absent gladness in his glance; "&thinsp;'Tis mine—my blood-red flag—again—again— "I am not all deserted on the main!" They own the signal, answer to the hail. Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. "&thinsp;'Tis Conrad!—Conrad!" shouting from the deck, Command nor duty could their transport check! With light alacrity and gaze of pride. They view him mount once more his vessel's side; A smile relaxing in each rugged face, Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace.