From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turned his head;

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way

Forced on his eye what he would not survey,

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep,

That hailed him first when homeward from the deep: 510

And she—the dim and melancholy Star,

Whose ray of Beauty reached him from afar,

On her he must not gaze, he must not think—

There he might rest—but on Destruction's brink:

Yet once almost he stopped—and nearly gave

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave:

But no—it must not be—a worthy chief

May melt, but not betray to Woman's grief.

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind,

And sternly gathers all his might of mind: 520

Again he hurries on—and as he hears

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears,

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore,

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar;

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast,

The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast,

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge

That mute Adieu to those who stem the surge;

And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft,

He marvelled how his heart could seem so soft. 530

Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast,

He feels of all his former self possest;

He bounds—he flies—until his footsteps reach

The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach,

There checks his speed; but pauses less to breathe

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath,

Than there his wonted statelier step renew;

Nor rush, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view:

For well had Conrad learned to curb the crowd,

By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud; 540

His was the lofty port, the distant mien,

That seems to shun the sight—and awes if seen:

The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye,

That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy;

All these he wielded to command assent:

But where he wished to win, so well unbent,

That Kindness cancelled fear in those who heard,

And others' gifts showed mean beside his word,

When echoed to the heart as from his own

His deep yet tender melody of tone: 550

But such was foreign to his wonted mood,

He cared not what he softened, but subdued;

The evil passions of his youth had made

Him value less who loved—than what obeyed.