Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/278

246 The anchors 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 marvelled 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, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view:

For well had Conrad learned 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;

All these he wielded to command assent:

But where he wished to win, so well unbent,

That Kindness cancelled fear in those who heard,

And others' gifts showed mean beside his word,

When echoed to the heart as from his own

His deep yet tender melody of tone:

But such was foreign to his wonted mood,

He cared not what he softened, but subdued;

The evil passions of his youth had made

Him value less who loved—than what obeyed.

XVII.

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard.

Before him Juan stands—"Are all prepared?"