The Sun hath sunk—and, darker than the night,

Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height

Medora's heart—the third day's come and gone—

With it he comes not—sends not—faithless one!

The wind was fair though light! and storms were none.

Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, and yet

His only tidings that they had not met! 1240

Though wild, as now, far different were the tale

Had Conrad waited for that single sail.

The night-breeze freshens—she that day had passed

In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast;

Sadly she sate on high—Impatience bore

At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,

And there she wandered, heedless of the spray

That dashed her garments oft, and warned away:

She saw not, felt not this—nor dared depart,

Nor deemed it cold—her chill was at her heart; 1250

Till grew such certainty from that suspense—

His very Sight had shocked from life or sense!

It came at last—a sad and shattered boat,

Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;

Some bleeding—all most wretched—these the few—

Scarce knew they how escaped—this all they knew.

In silence, darkling, each appeared to wait

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:

Something they would have said; but seemed to fear

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 1260

She saw at once, yet sunk not—trembled not—

Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot,

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,

That deemed not till they found their energy.

While yet was Hope they softened, fluttered, wept—

All lost—that Softness died not—but it slept;

And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,

"With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread."

'Tis more than Nature's—like the burning might

Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 1270

"Silent you stand—nor would I hear you tell

What—speak not—breathe not—for I know it well—

Yet would I ask—almost my lip denies

The—quick your answer—tell me where he lies."

"Lady! we know not—scarce with life we fled;

But here is one denies that he is dead:

He saw him bound; and bleeding—but alive."

She heard no further—'twas in vain to strive—

So throbbed each vein—each thought—till then withstood;

Her own dark soul—these words at once subdued: 1280

She totters—falls—and senseless had the wave

Perchance but snatched her from another grave;

But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes,

They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies:[hw]

Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew,

Raise, fan, sustain—till life returns anew;

Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave

That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve;

Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report

The tale too tedious—when the triumph short. 1290