THE CORSAIR

                    III

"A sail!—a sail!"—a promised prize to Hope!
Her nation—flag—how speaks the telescope?
No prize, alas!—but yet a welcome sail:
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale.
Yes—she is our's—a home returning bark—
Blow fair, thou breeze!—she anchors ere the dark.
Already doubled is the cape—our bay
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray;
How gloriously her gallant course she goes!
Her white wings flying—never from her foes.
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife—
Who would not brave the battle-fire—the wreck—
To move the monarch of her peopled deck?

                    IV

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings;
The sails are furl'd; and anchoring round she swings:
And gathering loiterers on the land discern
Her boat descending from the latticed stern.
'Tis mann'd—the oars keep concert to the strand,
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand.
Hail to the welcome shout!—the friendly speech!
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach;
The smile, the question, and the quick reply,
And the heart's promise of festivity!

                    V

The tidings spread—and gathering grows the crowd:
The hum of voices—and the laughter loud,
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard—
Friends'—husbands'—lovers' names in each dear word.
"Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success—
"But shall we see them? will their accents bless?
"From where the battle roars—the billows chafe—
"They doubtless boldly did—but who are safe?
"Here let them haste to gladden and surprize,
"And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!"

                    VI

"Where is our chief? for him we bear report—
"And doubt that joy—which hails our coming—short,
"Yet thus sincere—'tis cheering, though so brief;
"But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief:
"Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return,
"And all shall hear what each may wish to learn."
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way,
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay,
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming,
And freshness breathing from each silver spring,
Whose scattered streams from granite basins burst,
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst;
From crag to cliff they mount—Near yonder cave,
What lonely straggler looks along the wave?
In pensive posture leaning on the brand,
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand?
"'Tis he—'tis Conrad—here—as wont—alone,
"On—Juan! on—and make our purpose known.
"The bark he views—and tell him we would greet
"His ear with tidings he must quickly meet:
"We dare not yet approach—thou know'st his mood,
"When strange or uninvited steps intrude."