ask what will not Woman dare?
Whom Youth and Pity lead like thee, Gulnare!
She could not sleep--and while the Pacha's rest
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest,
She left his side--his signet-ring she bore,
Which oft in sport adorned her hand before--
And with it, scarcely questioned, won her way
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 1020
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows,
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose;
And chill and nodding at the turret door,
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more;
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring,
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring.

XIII.

She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep,
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep?
And mine in restlessness are wandering here--
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 1030
True--'tis to him my life, and more, I owe,
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe:
'Tis late to think--but soft--his slumber breaks--
How heavily he sighs!--he starts--awakes!"
He raised his head, and dazzled with the light,
His eye seemed dubious if it saw aright:
He moved his hand--the grating of his chain
Too harshly told him that he lived again.
"What is that form? if not a shape of air,
Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair!" 1040
"Pirate! thou know'st me not, but I am one,
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done;
Look on me--and remember her, thy hand
Snatched from the flames, and thy more fearful band.
I come through darkness--and I scarce know why--
Yet not to hurt--I would not see thee die."

"If so, kind lady! thine the only eye
That would not here in that gay hope delight:
Theirs is the chance--and let them use their right.
But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 1050
That would confess me at so fair a shrine!"

Strange though it seem--yet with extremest grief
Is linked a mirth--it doth not bring relief--
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles,
And smiles in bitterness--but still it smiles;
And sometimes with the wisest and the best,
Till even the scaffold[223] echoes with their jest!
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin--
It may deceive all hearts, save that within.
W