Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/308

276 "Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest

Sits Triumph—Conrad taken—fall'n the rest!

His doom is fixed—he dies; and well his fate

Was earned—yet much too worthless for thy hate:

Methinks, a short release, for ransom told

With all his treasure, not unwisely sold;

Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard—

Would that of this my Pacha were the lord!

While baffled, weakened by this fatal fray—

Watched—followed—he were then an easier prey;

But once cut off—the remnant of his band

Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand."

"Gulnare!—if for each drop of blood a gem

Were offered rich as Stamboul's diadem;

If for each hair of his a massy mine

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine;

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream

Of wealth were here—that gold should not redeem!

It had not now redeemed a single hour,

But that I know him fettered, in my power;

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still

On pangs that longest rack—and latest kill."

"Nay, Seyd! I seek not to restrain thy rage,

Too justly moved for Mercy to assuage;

My thoughts were only to secure for thee

His riches—thus released, he were not free:

Disabled—shorn of half his might and band,

His capture could but wait thy first command."