Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/320

288 XV. She wrongs his thoughts—they more himself upbraid

Than her—though undesigned—the wretch he made;

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest,

They bleed within that silent cell—his breast.

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge,

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge;

Far on the Horizon's verge appears a speck,

A spot—a mast—a sail—an arméd deck!

Their little bark her men of watch descry,

And ampler canvass woos the wind from high;

She bears her down majestically near,

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier;

A flash is seen—the ball beyond her bow

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below.

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance,

A long, long absent gladness in his glance;

"'Tis mine—my blood-red flag again—again—

I am not all deserted on the main!"

They own the signal, answer to the hail,

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail.

"'Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the deck,

Command nor Duty could their transport check!

With light alacrity and gaze of Pride,

They view him mount once more his vessel's side;

A smile relaxing in each rugged face,

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace.

He, half forgetting danger and defeat,

Returns their greeting as a Chief may greet,

Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand,

And feels he yet can conquer and command!