Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/327

CANTO III.] Each feeling pure—as falls the dropping dew

Within the grot—like that had hardened too;

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed,

But sunk, and chilled, and petrified at last.

Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock;

If such his heart, so shattered it the shock.

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,

Though dark the shade—it sheltered—saved till now.

The thunder came—that bolt hath blasted both,

The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth:

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell

Its tale, but shrunk and withered where it fell;

And of its cold protector, blacken round

But shivered fragments on the barren ground.

XXIV.

'Tis morn—to venture on his lonely hour

Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower.

He was not there, nor seen along the shore;

Ere night, alarmed, their isle is traversed o'er:

Another morn—another bids them seek,

And shout his name till Echo waxeth weak;

Mount—grotto—cavern—valley searched in vain,

They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain:

Their hope revives—they follow o'er the main.

'Tis idle all—moons roll on moons away,

And Conrad comes not, came not since that day:

Nor trace nor tidings of his doom declare

Where lives his grief, or perished his despair!