Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/321

CANTO III. XVI. These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,

Yet grieve to win him back without a blow;

They sailed prepared for vengeance—had they known

A woman's hand secured that deed her own,

She were their Queen—less scrupulous are they

Than haughty Conrad how they win their way.

With many an asking smile, and wondering stare,

They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare;

And her, at once above—beneath her sex,

Whom blood appalled not, their regards perplex.

To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye,

She drops her veil, and stands in silence by;

Her arms are meekly folded on that breast,

Which—Conrad safe—to Fate resigned the rest.

Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill,

Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill,

The worst of crimes had left her Woman still!

XVII.

This Conrad marked, and felt—ah! could he less?—

Hate of that deed—but grief for her distress;

What she has done no tears can wash away,

And Heaven must punish on its angry day:

But—it was done: he knew, whate'er her guilt,

For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt;

And he was free!—and she for him had given

Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven!