Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/273

CANTO I.] Still must each accent to my bosom suit,

My heart unhushed—although my lips were mute!

Oh! many a night on this lone couch reclined,

My dreaming fear with storms hath winged the wind,

And deemed the breath that faintly fanned thy sail

The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale;

Though soft—it seemed the low prophetic dirge,

That mourned thee floating on the savage surge:

Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire,

Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire;

And many a restless hour outwatched each star,

And morning came—and still thou wert afar.

Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew,

And day broke dreary on my troubled view,

And still I gazed and gazed—and not a prow

Was granted to my tears—my truth—my vow!

At length—'twas noon—I hailed and blest the mast

That met my sight—it neared—Alas! it passed!

Another came—Oh God! 'twas thine at last!

Would that those days were over! wilt thou ne'er,

My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share?

Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home

As bright as this invites us not to roam:

Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear,

I only tremble when thou art not here;

Then not for mine, but that far dearer life,

Which flies from love and languishes for strife—

How strange that heart, to me so tender still,

Should war with Nature and its better will!"

"Yea, strange indeed—that heart hath long been changed;

Worm-like 'twas trampled—adder-like avenged—

Without one hope on earth beyond thy love,

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above.