No More Learning

'Tis from her cypress summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word:
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth
That white rose takes its tender birth.
There late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed--the Morrow gone! 1200
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep fixed pillar to the shore;
For there, as Helle's legends tell,
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell;
Lashed by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grave:
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said.
Is seen a ghastly turbaned head:[192]
And hence extended by the billow,
'Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow! " 1210
Where first it lay that mourning flower
Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour,
Alone and dewy--coldly pure and pale;
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale! [hj][193]





THE CORSAIR. [197]



CANTO THE FIRST.

"----nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria,----"
Dante, _Inferno_, v. 121.

I.

"O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home! [198]
These are our realms, no limits to their sway--
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; 10
Not thou, vain lord of Wantonness and Ease!
Whom Slumber soothes not--Pleasure cannot please--
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense--the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint can only feel-- 20
Feel--to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?
No dread of Death--if with us die our foes--
Save that it seems even duller than repose;
Come when it will--we snatch the life of Life--
When lost--what recks it by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls, enamoured of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;[hk]
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed,-- 30
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang--one bound--escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in Danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey, 40
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted _now_! "

II.

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while:
Such were the sounds that thrilled the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seemed a song!
In scattered groups upon the golden sand,
They game--carouse--converse--or whet the brand;
Select the arms--to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine; 50
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the shore;
For the wild bird the busy springes set,
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net:
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies,
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise;
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil,
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil:
No matter where--their chief's allotment this;
Theirs to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 60
But who that Chief? his name on every shore
Is famed and feared--they ask and know no more
With these he mingles not but to command;
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand.
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess,
But they forgive his silence for success.
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill,
That goblet passes him untasted still--
And for his fare--the rudest of his crew
Would that, in turn, have passed untasted too; 70
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots,
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits,
His short repast in humbleness supply
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny.
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense,
His mind seems nourished by that abstinence.
"Steer to that shore!