XIX.

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!