The lights are high on beacon and from bower,

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:

He looks in vain—'tis strange—and all remark,

Amid so many, hers alone is dark.

'Tis strange—of yore its welcome never failed,

Nor now, perchance, extinguished—only veiled. 1740

With the first boat descends he for the shore,

And looks impatient on the lingering oar.

Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight,

To bear him like an arrow to that height!

With the first pause the resting rowers gave,

He waits not—looks not—leaps into the wave,

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high

Ascends the path familiar to his eye.

He reached his turret door—he paused—no sound

Broke from within; and all was night around. 1750

He knocked, and loudly—footstep nor reply

Announced that any heard or deemed him nigh:

He knocked, but faintly—for his trembling hand

Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.

The portal opens—'tis a well known face—

But not the form he panted to embrace.

Its lips are silent—twice his own essayed,

And failed to frame the question they delayed;

He snatched the lamp—its light will answer all—

It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 1760

He would not wait for that reviving ray—

As soon could he have lingered there for day;

But, glimmering through the dusky corridor,

Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor;

His steps the chamber gain—his eyes behold

All that his heart believed not—yet foretold!