Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/298

266 XIV.

"Corsair! thy doom is named—but I have power

To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.

Thee would I spare—nay more—would save thee now,

But this—Time—Hope—nor even thy strength allow;

But all I can,—I will—at least delay

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

More now were ruin—even thyself were loth

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both."

"Yes!—loth indeed:—my soul is nerved to all,

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall:

Tempt not thyself with peril—me with hope

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope:

Unfit to vanquish—shall I meanly fly,

The one of all my band that would not die?

Yet there is one—to whom my Memory clings,

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs.

My sole resources in the path I trod

Were these—my bark—my sword—my love—my God!

The last I left in youth!—He leaves me now—

And Man but works his will to lay me low.

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer

Wrung from the coward crouching of Despair;

It is enough—I breathe—and I can bear.

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand

That might have better kept so true a brand;

My bark is sunk or captive—but my Love—

For her in sooth my voice would mount above:

Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind—

And this will break a heart so more than kind,

And blight a form—till thine appeared, Gulnare!

Mine eye ne'er asked if others were as fair."