XIII.

She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep,
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?
And mine in restlessness are wandering here-
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear?
True 'tis to him my life, and more,
I owe,

And me and mine he spared from worse than woe:
"Tis late to think-but soft-his slumber breaks-
How heavily he sighs!—he starts-awakes!"

He raised his head-and dazzled with the light,
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright:
He moved his hand-the grating of his chain
Too harshly told him that he lived again.
"What is that form? if not a shape of air,
Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair!"
"Pirate! thou know'st me not-but I am one,
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done;
Look on me-and remember her, thy hand
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band.
I come through darkness-and I scarce know why-
Yet not to hurt-I would not see thee die."

"If so, kind lady! thine the only eye
That would not here in that gay hope delight,
Theirs is the chance-and let them use their right.
But still I thank their courtesy or thine,
That would confess me at so fair a shrine!"
Strange though it seem-yet with extremest grief
Is link'd a mirth-it doth not bring relief-
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles,
And smiles in bitterness-but still it smiles;
And sometimes with the wisest and the best,
Till even the scaffold* echoes with their jest!
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin-
It may deceive all hearts, save that within.
Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow:
And these his accents had a sound of mirth,
As if the last he could enjoy on earth;
Yet 'gainst his nature-for through that short life,
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife.

XIV.

"Corsair thy doom is named-but I have power
To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour,

Thee would I spare-nay more-would save thee now,
But this-time-hope-nor even thy strength allow;
But all I can, I will: at least, delay

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

*In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Ann Boleyn, in the Tower, when, grasping her neck, she remarked, that it was too slender to trouble the headsman much." During one part of the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave some "mot" as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable ize B.

Too harshly told him that he lived again. "What is that form? if not a shape of air. Methinks my jailor's face shows wondrous fair"!

The Corsair

P. 196.

XIII.

She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep,
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?
And mine in restlessness are wandering here-
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear?
True-'tis to him my life, and more, I owe,
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe:

Li lumber breaks

omas more, 101

grasping her neck, she remarked, that it was too much.' During one part of the French Revolution, it became a ave some "mot" as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words ring that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable

"What is that form? if not a shape of air.

Methinks my jailor's face shows wondrous fair"!

The Corsair p. 196.