from Canto IV

31

She dream’d of being alone on the sea-shore,
     Chain’d to a rock; she knew not how, but stir
She could not from the spot, and the loud roar
     Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her;
And o’er her upper lip they seem’d to pour,
     Until she sobb’d for breath, and soon they were
Foaming o’er her lone head, so fierce and high
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.

32

Anon—she was released, and then she stray’d
     O’er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet,
And stumbled almost every step she made;
     And something roll’d before her in a sheet,
Which she must still pursue howe’er afraid;
     ‘Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp’d to meet
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp’d,
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp’d.

33

The dream changed; in a cave she stood, its walls
     Were hung with marble icicles; the work
Of ages on its water-fretted halls,
     Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk;
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls
     Of her black eyes seem’d turn’d to tears, and murk
The sharp rocks look’d below each drop they caught,
Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought.

34

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet,
    Pale as the foam that froth’d on his dead brow,
Which she essay’d in vain to clear, (how sweet
     Were once her cares, how idle seem’d they now!)
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat
    Of his quench’d heart; and the sea dirges low
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid’s song,
And that brief dream appear’d a life too long.

35

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face
     Faded, or alter’d into something new—
Like to her father’s features, till each trace
     More like and like to Lambro’s aspect grew—
With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace;
     And starting, she awoke, and what to view?
Oh! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there?
‘Tis—’tis her father’s—fix’d upon the pair!

36

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell,
     With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see
Him whom she deem’d a habitant where dwell
     The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be
Perchance the death of one she loved too well:
     Dear as her father had been to Haide,
It was a moment of that awful kind—
I have seen such—but must not call to mind.

37

Up Juan sprung to Haide’s bitter shriek,
     And caught her falling, and from off the wall
Snatch’d down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak
     Vengeance on him who was the cause of all:
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak,
    Smiled scornfully, and said, “Within my call,
A thousand scimitars await the word;
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.”

38

And Haide clung around him; “Juan, ‘tis—
     ‘Tis Lambro—’tis my father! Kneel with me—
He will forgive us—yes—it must be—yes.
     Oh! dearest father, in this agony
Of pleasure and of pain—even while I kiss
     Thy garment’s hem with transport, can it be
That doubt should mingle with my filial joy?
Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.”

39

High and inscrutable the old man stood,
     Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye—
Not always signs with him of calmest mood:
     He look’d upon her, but gave no reply;
Then turn’d to Juan, in whose cheek the blood
     Oft came and went, as there resolved to die;
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring
On the first foe whom Lambro’s call might bring.

40

“Young man, your sword”; so Lambro once more said:
     Juan replied, “Not while this arm is free.”
The old man’s cheek grew pale, but not with dread,
     And drawing from his belt a pistol, he
Replied, “Your blood be then on your own head.”
     Then look’d close at the flint, as if to see
‘Twas fresh—for he had lately used the lock—
And next proceeded quietly to cock.