Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/306

274 Something they would have said; but seemed to fear

To trust their accents to Medora's ear.

She saw at once, yet sunk not—trembled not—

Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,

That deemed not till they found their energy.

While yet was Hope they softened, fluttered, wept—

All lost—that Softness died not—but it slept;

And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,

"With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread."

'Tis more than Nature's—like the burning might

Delirium gathers from the fever's height.

"Silent you stand—nor would I hear you tell

What—speak not—breathe not—for I know it well—

Yet would I ask—almost my lip denies

The—quick your answer—tell me where he lies."

"Lady! we know not—scarce with life we fled;

But here is one denies that he is dead:

He saw him bound; and bleeding—but alive."

She heard no further—'twas in vain to strive—

So throbbed 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 snatched 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;