Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/323

CANTO III.] The haven hums with many a cheering sound,

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round,

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay,

And sportive Dolphins bend them through the spray;

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek,

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak!

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams,

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams.

Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam?

XIX.

The lights are high on beacon and from bower,

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:

He looks in vain—'tis strange—and all remark,

Amid so many, hers alone is dark.

'Tis strange—of yore its welcome never failed,

Nor now, perchance, extinguished—only veiled.

With the first boat descends he for the shore,

And looks impatient on the lingering oar.

Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,

To bear him like an arrow to that height!

With the first pause the resting rowers gave,

He waits not—looks not—leaps into the wave,

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high

Ascends the path familiar to his eye.

He reached his turret door—he paused—no sound

Broke from within; and all was night around.

He knocked, and loudly—footstep nor reply

Announced that any heard or deemed him nigh;