Classic Audiobook Collection - The Island by George Gordon Byron ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

Episode Date: June 15, 2023

The Island by George Gordon Byron audiobook. Genre: poetry In The Island, Lord George Gordon Byron turns a famous act of rebellion at sea into a lush, urgent tale of exile, desire, and survival. Loosely inspired by the aftermath of the mutiny on the HMS Bounty, the poem follows Torquil, a young sailor cast adrift from the rigid world of the British navy and thrust into the blazing freedom and peril of the Pacific. On an island that seems at first like paradise, Torquil encounters Neuha, a woman whose intelligence and courage match the wild beauty of her home. Their growing bond offers refuge from the pursuit closing in around them, but it also forces Torquil to confront what he has escaped and what he is willing to risk for a life not governed by empire and command. Byron blends sweeping seascapes, romantic intensity, and sharp moral skepticism, asking whether innocence can exist under the shadow of power, and whether love can be a shelter when the wider world insists on possession and punishment. Vivid, sensual, and restless, The Island is both an adventure and a meditation on freedom's cost. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:13:47) Chapter 2 (00:43:34) Chapter 3 (00:56:32) Chapter 4 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

the island or christian and his comrades by lord byron canto the first the morning watch was come the vessel lay her course and gently made her liquid way the cloven billow flashed from off her prow in furrows formed by that majestic plough the waters with their world were all before behind the south seas many an islet shore The quiet night, now dapling, gan to wane, dividing darkness from the dawning mane. The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, swam high, as eager of the coming ray. The stars from broader beams began to creep, and lift their shining eyelids from the deep. The sail resumed its lately shadowed white, and the wind fluttered with a freshening flight. The purpling ocean owns the coming sun. but ere he break a deed is to be done the gallant chief within his cabin slept secure in those by whom the watch was kept

his dreams were of old england's welcome shore of toils rewarded and of dangers oar his name was added to the glorious roll of those who searched the storm surrounded pole the worst was over and the rest seemed sure and why should not his slumber be secure alas his deck was trod by unwilling feet and wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet and wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet young hearts which languished for some sunny isle where summer years and summer women smile men without country who too long estranged had found no native home or found it changed and half uncivilized preferred the cave of some soft savage to the uncertain wave the gushing fruits that nature gave unfilled the wood without a path but where they willed the field or wood or wood the field o'er which promiscuous plenty poured her horn the equal land without a lord the wish which ages have not yet subdued in man to have no master save his mood the earth whose mine was on its face unsold the glowing sun and produce all its gold the freedom which can call each grot a home the general garden where all steps may roam where nature owns a nation as her child exulting in the enjoyment of the wild. Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know.

Their unexploring navy, the canoe. Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase, Their strangest sight and European face. Such was the country which these strangers yearned to see again, A sight they dearly earned. Awake, bold bligh! The foe is at the gate! Awake! Awake! Alas, it is too late. Fierly beside thy cot the mutineer stands and proclaims the reign of

rage and fear. Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast, the hands which trembled at thy voice, a rest. Dragged o'er the deck, no more at thy command, the obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand. That savage spirit which would lull by wrath its deft, it's desperate escape from duty's path, glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes of those who fear the chief they sacrifice. For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, unless he drain the wine of passion, rage. In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath. They come not. They are few, and overawed must acquiesce, sterner hearts applaud. In vain thou dost demand the cause. A curse is all the answer, with the

threat of worse. Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. The levelled muskets circle round thy breast in hands as steeled to do the deadly rest. Thou dares them to their worst, exclaiming, Fire! But they who pitied not could yet admire. Some lurking remnant of their former awe restrained them longer than their broken law. They would not dip their souls at once in blood, but left thee to the mercies of the flood. Hoist out the boat, was now the leader's cry. And who dare answer no to mutiny? In the first dawning of the drunken hour, the saturnalia of unhoped-for power? The boat is lowered with all the haste of hate, with its slight plank between thee.

and thy fate. Her only cargo, such a scant supply, as promises the death their hands deny, and just enough of water and of bread to keep some days the dying from the dead. Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and twine, but treasures all to hermits of the brine, were added after, to the earnest prayer of those who saw no hope save sea and air. And last that trembling vassal of the pole, the feeling compass, navigation's soul. And now the self-elected chief finds time to stun the first sensation of his crime, and raise it in his followers. Ho! the bowl!

Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. Brandy for heroes! Burke could once exclaim, no doubt a liquid path to epic fame, and such the newborn heroes found it here, and drained the draft with an applauding cheer. Hazzar! for Ota-Height was the cry! How strange such shouts from sons of mutiny! The gentle island and the genial soil, the friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, the courteous manners but from nature caught, the wealth unhordid and the love unbought! Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys?

driven before the mast by every wind of heaven. And now, even now, prepared with others woes to earn mild virtues vain desire, repose? Alas! Such is our nature. All but aim at the same end by pathways not the same. Our means, our birth, our nation and our name, our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, are far more potent or our yielding clay than all of our yielding clay than all we know beyond our little day. Yet still there whispers the small voice within, heard through gain's silence and o'er glories din. Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, man's conscience is the oracle of God." The launch is crowded with the faithful few who wait their chief, a melancholy crew, but some remained

reluctant on the deck of that proud vessel, now a moral wreck. and viewed their captain's fate with piteous eyes, while others scoffed his augured miseries, sneered at the prospect of his pygmy sail, and the slight bark so laden and so frail. The tender nautilus who steers his prow, the seaborn sailor of his shell canoe, the ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, seems far less fragile, and alas more free. He, when the lightning-winged tornadoes, sweep the surge is safe, his poor, quarters in the deep, and triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind.

When all was now prepared the vessel clear which hailed her master in the mutineer, a seaman less obdurate than his mates, showed the vain pity which but irritates, watched his late chieftain with exploring eye, and told in signs repentant sympathy, held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drought. But soon observed this guardian was withdrawn, nor further mercy clouds rebellions dawn. Then forward stepped the bold and froward boy his chief had cherished only to destroy, and pointing to the helpless prow beneath exclaimed, "'Depart at once! Delay is death!' Yet then, even then his feelings ceased not all.

In that last moment could a word recall remorse for the black deed as yet half done, and what he hid from many showed to one. When Bly and stern reproach demanded where was now his grateful sense of former care? Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, and blazon Britain's thousand glories higher! His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell. Tis that! Tis that! I am in hell!

In hell! no more he said but urging to the bark his chief commits him to his fragile ark these the sole accents from his tongue that fell but volumes lurked below his fierce farewell the arctic sun rose broad above the wave the breeze now sank now whispered from his cave as on the eolian harp his fitful wings now swelled now fluttered o'er his ocean strings with slow despairing oar the abandoned skiff ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff which lifts its peak a cloud above the main that boat and ship shall never meet again But tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, their constant peril and their scant relief, their days of danger and their nights of pain, their manly courage even when deemed in vain. The sapping famine rendering scarce a son known to his mother in the skeleton, the ills that lessened still their little store, and starved even hunger till he wrung no more.

The varying frowns and favors of the deep, that now almost engulfs, then leave, to creep with crazy oar and shattered strength along the tide that yields reluctant to the strong. The incessant fever of that arid thirst, which welcomes as a well the clouds that burst above their naked bones, and feels delight in the cold drenching of the stormy night, and from the outspread canvas gladly rings a drop to moisten life's all gasping springs. The savage foe escaped, to seek again more hospitable to. shelter from the main, the ghastly spectres which were doomed at last to tell as true a tale of dangers past, as ever the dark annals of the deep disclosed for man to dread, or woman weep.

We leave them to their fate, but not unknown nor unredressed. Revenge may have her own. Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, and injured navies urge their broken laws. Pursue we on his track the mutineer, whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear, Wide o'er the wave, away, away, away! Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay, Once more the happy shores without a law receive the outlaws whom they lately saw. Nature, and nature's goddess, woman, Woo's to lands where save their conscience none accuse, where all part-auntary. take the earth without dispute, and bread itself is gathered as a fruit. Where none contest

the fields, the woods, the streams, the goldless age where gold disturbs no dreams, inhabits or inhabited the shore, till Europe taught them better than before, bestowed her customs and amended theirs, but left her vices also to their heirs. Away with this, behold them as they were, do good with nature or with nature, err. Haza for Otehite was the cry, as stately swept the gallant vessel by. The breeze springs up, the lately flapping sail extends its arch before the growing gale, in swifter ripples stream aside the seas, which her bold prow flings off with dashing ease. Thus Argo ploughed the Eukson's virgin foam, but though she wafted still look

looked back to home. These spurn their country with their rebel bark, and fly her as the raven fled the ark, and yet they seek to nestle with the dove, and tame their fiery spirits down to love. End of canto one. Kanto II of the Island. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Klet. The Island by Lord Byron. Kanto II. How pleasant were the songs of Tubene, when summer's sun went down the coral bay. Come let us to the islet's softest shade and hear the warbling birds, the damsels said. The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, like voices of the gods from Balatoo,

will cull the flowers that grow above the dead, for these most bloom where rests the warrior's head, and we will sit in twilight's face, and see the sweet moon glancing through the Tua-tree. The lofty accents of whose sighing bow shall sadly please us as we lean below, or climb the steep and view the surf in vain, wrestle with rocky giants or the main, which spurt in columns back the baffled spray, how beautiful are these, how happy they, who from the toil and tumult of their lives steal to look down where naught but ocean strives. Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, and smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon.

Yes, from the sepulchre will gather flowers, Then feast like spirits in their promised boughs, Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, And wet and shining from the sportive toil, Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, And plat our garlands gathered from the grave, And where the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. But low, Night comes, The Muaw wooze us back, The sound of mats are heard along our track. Anon the torchlight dance

Shall fling its sheen In flashing mazes or the Marley's green, And we too will be there. We too recall the memory bright With many a festival, Air Fiji blew the shell of war, When foes for the first time Were wafted in canoes.

Alas, for them the flower of manhood bleeds. Alas for them our fields are rank with weeds. Forgotten as the rapture, or unknown, of wandering with the moon and love alone. But be it so. They taught us how to wield the club and drain our arrows or the field. Now let them reap the harvest of their art. But feast to-night. Tomorrow we depart. Strike up the dance. The cover-ball fill high. Drain every drop. Tomorrow we may die. In summer garments be our limbs arrayed, Around our waists the top as white displayed, Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like springs,

And round our necks shall glance the hoony strings. So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. But now the dance is o'er, yet stay a while. Ah, pause, nor yet put out the social smile. Tomorrow for the Muaw we depart, But not tonight. Tonight is for the heart. Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo,

Ye young enchantresses of gay Lyku. How lovely are your forms, How every sense bows to your beauties, softened but intense, Like to the flowers on Mataloko's steep, Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep. We too will see Lyku. But, oh, my heart, what do I say?

To-morrow we depart. Thus rose a song, the harmony of times before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. True they had vices, such are nature's growth, but only the barbarians. We have both, the sordre of civilization, mixed with all the savage which man's fall hath fixed, Who hath not seen dissimulations reign, the prayers of Abel linked to deeds of Cain? Who such would see many from his lattice view the old world more degraded than the new? Now new no more, save where Columbia rears twin giants, born by freedom to her spheres, where Chimborazo over air, earth, wave, glares with his titan eye and sees no slave.

Such was this ditty of tradition's days, which to the dead a lingering fame conveys in song, Where fame as yet hath left no sign beyond the sound whose charm is half divine, Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, but yields young history all to harmony. A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre in hand to teach him to surpass his sire. For one long-cherished ballad simple stave, wrung from the rock or mingled with the wave or from the bubbling streamlets grassy side or gathering mountain echoes as they glide hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear than all the columns conquests minions rear invites when hieroglyphics are a theme for sage's labors or the student's dream attracts when history's volumes are a toil the first the freshest bud of feeling's soil Such was this rude rhyme.

Rime is of the rude, but such inspired the Norseman's solitude, who came and conquered. Such wherever rise lands which no foes destroy or civilize exist, and what can our accomplished art of verse do more than reach the awakened heart? And sweetly now those untaught melodies broke the luxurious silence of the skies, the sweet siesta of a summer day, the tropic afternoon of Tubaanai, when every flower was bloom and air was balm, and the first breath began to stir the palm. The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave all gently to refresh the thirsty cave, where sat the songstress with the stranger-boy, who taught her passions desolating joy. Too powerful over every heart, but most or those

who know not how it may be lost, or those who, burning in the newborn fire, like martyrs, revel in their funeral pyre, with such devotion to their ecstasy, that life knows no such rapture as to die. And die they do, for earthly life has not matched with that burst of nature, even in thought, and all our dreams of better life above, but close in one eternal gush of love. there sat the gentle savage of the wild in growth a woman though in years a child as childhood dates within our colder clime where naught is ripened rapidly save crime the infant of an infant world as pure from nature lovely warm and premature dusky like night but night with all her stars or cavern sparkling with its native spars with eyes that were a language and a spell a form like Aphrodites in her shell. With all her loves around her on the deep,

voluptuous as the first approach of sleep, yet full of life. For through her topic cheek the blush would make its way and all but speak. The sun-born blood suffused her neck, and through or her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue, like coral reddening through the darkened wave, which draws the diver to the crimson cave. Such was this daughter of the southern seas, herself a billow in her energies, to bear the bark of others' happiness, nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less.

Her wild and warm, yet faithful bosom knew no joy like what it gave, her hopes ne'er drew aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose sad proof reduces all things from their hues. She feared no ill because she knew it not, or what she knew. was soon, too soon forgot. Her smiles and tears had passed, as light winds pass or lakes to ruffle, not destroy their glass, whose depths unsearched and fountains from the hill restore their surface, in itself so still, until the earthquake tear the Niyadh's cave, root up the spring and trample on the wave, and crush the living waters to amass, the amphibious desert of the dank morass. And must their fate be hers? The eternal change but grasps humanity with quicker range, and they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, to rise, if just, a spirit

or them all. And who is he? The blue-eyed northern child of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild. The fair-haired offspring of the Hebrides, where roars the pentland with its whirling seas, rocked in his cradle by the roaring wind, the tempest born in body and in mind, his young eyes opening on the ocean foam, had from that moment deemed the deep his home, the giant comrade of his pensive moods, the share of his craggy solitudes, the only mentor of his youth, ere his bark was born, the sport of wave and air. A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, nursed by the legends of his land's romance, eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, acquainted with all feelings save despair. Placed in the Arab's climb he would have been as

bold a rover as the sands have seen, and braved their thirst with as enduring lip as Ishmael, wafted on his desert ship. Fixed upon Chile. shore a proud Cascique, on Hellas mountains a rebellious Greek, born in a tent, perhaps a tamerlane, bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. For the same soul that rends its path to sway, if reared to such, can find no further prey beyond itself, and must retrace its way. Plunging for pleasure into pain. The same spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, A humbler state and discipline of heart Had formed his glorious namesake's counterpart

But grant his vices, grant them all his own, How small their theatre without a throne? Thou smilest, these comparisons seem high To those who scan all things with dazzled eye, Linked with the unknown name of one whose doom has not to do with glory Or with Rome, with chilly Hellas, or with Araby. Thou smilest? Smile.

Tis better thus than sigh. Yet such he might have been. He was a man, a soaring spirit ever in the van, A patriot hero or despotic chief, To form a nation's glory or its grief, Born under auspices which make us more or less Than we delight to ponder oar. But these are visions.

Say what was he here? A blooming boy, A truant mutineer. The fair-haired torquil, free as ocean spray, the husband of the bride of Tubenei. By Nuha's side he sat and watched the waters. Nuha, the sunflower of the island daughters, high-born, a birth at which the herald smiles without a scutcheon for these secret aisles, of a long race, the valiant and the free, the naked knights of savage chivalry, whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore,

and thine i've seen achilles do no more she when the thunder-bearing strangers came in vast canoes begirt with bolts of flame topped with tall trees which loftier than the palm seemed rooted in the deep amidst its calm but when the winds awakened shot forth wings broad as the cloud along the horizon flings and swayed the waves like cities of the sea making the very billows look less free She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, shot through the surf like reindeer through the snow, swift gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, light as a nereid in her ocean's sledge, and gazed and wondered at the giant hulk, which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk. The anchor dropped. It lay along the deep, like a huge lion in the sun asleep. While round it swarmed the prowess flitting chain, like summer bees that hum around his mane. The white man landed. Need the rest be told. The new world stretched its dusk hand to the old.

Each was to each a marvel, and the tie of wonder warmed to better sympathy. Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, and kinder still their daughter's gentler fires. Their union grew. The children of the storm found beauty linked with many a dusky form, while these in turn admired the paler glow, which seemed so white in climes that knew no snow. The chase, the race, the liberty to roam, the soil where every cottage showed a home, the sea-spread net, the lightly launched canoe, which stemmed the studded archipelago, or whose blue bosom rose the starry aisles.

The healthy slumber earned by sportive toil. The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, within whose bosom infant bacchus broods, while eagles scarce build higher than the crest which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast. The kava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, which bears at once the cup and milk and fruit. The bread-treeks, which without the plough-share yields the unreaped harvest of unfurrowed fields, and bakes its unadulterated loaves without a furnace in unpurchased groves, and flings off famine from its fertile breast, a priceless market for the gathering guest. These with the luxuries of seas and woods, the airy joys of social solitudes, tamed each

rude wanderer to the sympathies of those who were more happy, if less wise, did more than Europe's discipline had done, and civilized civilization's sun. Of these, and there was many a willing pair, Nuha and Torquil were not the least fair. Both children of the Isles, though distant far, both born beneath a sea-presiding star, both nourished amidst nature's native scenes, loved to the last, whatever intervenes between us and our childhood's sympathy, which still revert to what first caught the eye. He who first met the highland swelling blue Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue

Hale in each crag a friend's familiar face And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace Long have I roamed through lands which are not mine Adored the Alp and loved the Apennine Reveread Parnassus And beheld the steep Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep But twas not all long ages long long long, Nor all their nature held me in their thrilling thrall.

The infant rapture still survived the boy, And Lochnagar with Ida looked o'er Troy, Mixed Celtic memories with the Phrygian Mount, And Highland Linz with Castilees clear fount. Forgive me Homer's universal shade! Forgive me, Phoebus, that my fancy strayed. The North and Nature taught me to adore your scenes sublime from those beloved before. The love which maketh all things fond and fair, the youth which makes one rainbow of the air, the dangers past that make even man enjoy the pause in which he ceases to destroy,

the mutual beauty, which the sternest feel strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, united the half-savage and the whole, the maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. No more the thundering memory of the fight Wrapped his weaned bosom in its dark delight. No more the irksome restlessness of rest disturbed him like the eagle in her nest, Whose wetted beak and far-pervading eye Darts for a victim over all the sky.

His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, At once Elysian and effeminate, Which leaves no laurels or the heroes earn. These wither, when for aught save blood they burn. yet when their ashes in their nook are laid doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade had caesar known but cleopatra's kiss rome had been free the world had not been his and what have caesar's deeds and caesar's fame done for the earth we feel them in our shame the gory sanction of his glory stains the rust which tyrants cherish in our chains though glory nature reason freedom bid roused millions do what single brutus did sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot song from the tall bough where they have perched so long still are we hawked at by such mousing owls and take for falcons these ignoble fowls when but a word of freedom would dispel these bug-bears as their terrors show too well

wrapped in the fond forgetfulness of life knew her the south sea girl was all a wife with no distracting world to call her off from love with no society to scoff at the new transient flame no babbling crowd of coxcombry in admiration loud or with adulterous whisper to alloy her duty and her glory and her joy with faith and feelings naked as her form she stood as stands a rainbow in a storm changing its huge with bright variety, but still expanding lovelier o'er the sky. Howe'er its arch may swell, its colors move, the cloud-compelling harbingerbanger of love. Here in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, they passed the tropics' red meridian oar. Nor long the hours. They never paused or time, unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, which deals the daily pittance of our span, and points and mocks with iron laugh at man. What deemed they of the future, or the past?

The present, like a tyrant, held them fast. Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide, like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide, their clock the sun, In his unbounded tower they reckoned not, Whose day was but an hour. The nightingale, their only Vesper bell, sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell. The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep,

as in the north he mellows o'er the deep. But fiery, full and fierce, as if he left the world forever, earth of light bereft, plunged with red forehead down along the wave, as dives a hero headlong to his grave. Then rose they, looking first along the skies, and then for love light into each other's eyes, wondering that summer showed so brief a sun, and asking if indeed the day were done. And let not this seem strange, the devotee lives not in earth but in his ecstasy. Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, his soul is gone before his dust to heaven. Is love less potent?

No. His path is trod, alike uplifted gloriously to God. or linked to all we know of heaven below the other better self whose joy or wo is more than ours the all-absorbing flame which kindled by another grows the same wrapped in one blaze the pure yet funeral pile where gentle hearts like brahmins sit and smile how often we forget all time when lone admiring nature's universal throne her woods her wilds her waters the intense reply of of hers to our intelligence. Live not the stars and mountains. Are the waves without a spirit? Are

the dropping caves without a feeling in their silent tears? No, no. They woo and clasp us to their spheres, dissolve this clog and clod of clay before its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. Strip off this fond and false identity. Who thinks of self when gazing on the sky? and who, though gazing lower, ever thought, in the young moments ere the heart is taught time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own? All nature is his realm, and love his throne. Newhar arose, and torquil. Twilight's hour came sad and softly to their rocky bower, which kindling by degrees its dewy spars echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. Slowly the pair partaking nature's calm sought out their cottage built beneath the palm now smiling and now silent as the scene lovely as love the spirit when serene

the ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell than breathes his mimic murmur in the shell as far divided from his parent deep the sea-born infant cries and will not sleep raising his little plaint in vain to rave for the broad bosom of his nursing wave. The woods dropped darkly, as inclined to rest. The tropic bird wheeled rockward to his nest, and the blue sky spread round them like a lake of peace, where piety her thirst might slake. But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice. Not such as would have been a lover's choice, in such an hour to break the air so still. No dying night-breeze harping o'er the hill, Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, Those best and earliest lyres of harmony.

With echo for their chorus, Nor the alarm of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm, Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, Exailing all his solitary soul, The dim, though large-eyed winged anchorite, Who peals his dreary peon o'er the night, but a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill as ever started through a seabird's bill, and then a pause, and then a horse,

Hello! Torquil, my boy! What cheer! Ho! Brother! Ho! Who hails? cried Torquil, following with his eye the sound. Here's one, was all the brief reply. But here the herald of the selfsame mouth came breathing o'er the aromatic south, not like a bed of violets on the gale but such as wafts its cloud or grog or ale born from a short frail pipe which yet had blown its gentle odours or either zone and puffed where'er winds rise or waters roll had wafted smoke from portsmouth to the pole Opposed its vapour as the lightning flashed, and reeked midst mountain billows unabashed, To eul us a constant sacrifice, through every change of all the varying skies. And what was he who bore it?

I may err, but deem him sailor or philosopher, sublime tobacco, Which from east to west cheers the Tars' labour or the Turkmen's rest, Which on the moslems' ottoman divides his hours, and rivals opium and his brides. Magnificent in Istanbul, but less grand, though not less loved in whopping or the strand. Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe,

when tipped with amber, mellow, rich and ripe. Like other charmers, wooing the caress, more dazzlingly when daring in full dress. Yet thy true lovers more admire by far thy naked beauties. Give me a cigar. Through the approaching, darkness of the wood a human figure broke the solitude. Fantastically, it may be, a raid, a seaman in a savage masquerade, such as appears to rise out from the deep, when o'er the line the merry

vessels sweep, and the rough Saturnalia of the tar flock or the deck in Neptune's borrowed car. And pleased the god of Ocean sees his name revive once more, though but in mimic game of his true sons, who riot in the breeze. undreamt of in his native cyclades. Still the old God delights from out the main to snatch some glimpses of his ancient rain. Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, his constant pipe, which never yet burned dim, his foremast air and somewhat rolling gait, like his dear vessel, spoke his former state. But then a sort of kerchief round his head, not overtightly bound nor nicely spread. And instead of trousers—ah, too early torn, for even the mildest woods

will have their thorn—a curious sort of somewhat scanty mat—now served for inexpressibles and hat. His naked feet and neck and sunburnt face, perchance might suit alike with either race. His arms were all his own—our Europe's growth—which two worlds bless for civilizing both. The musket swung behind his shoulders broad. and somewhat stooped by his marine abode but brawny as the boars and hung beneath his cutlass drooped unconscious of a sheath or lost or worn away his pistols were linked to his belt a matrimonial pair let not this metaphor appear a scoff though one missed fire the other would go off these with a bayonet not so free from rust as when the arm-chest held its brighter trust completed his accoutrements as night surveyed him in his garb heteroclite." "'What cheer, Ben Bunting!' cried, when in full view our new acquaintance,

Torquil. "'Ot of new.' "'Aye, aye,' quoth Ben, "'not new, but new's a-now, a strange sail in the offing.' "'Sail? And how? What could you make her out? It cannot be. I've seen no rag of canvas on the sea.'

"'Belike,' said Ben, You might not from the bay, but from the bluff-head where I watched to-day. I saw her in the doldrums, for the wind was light and baffling. When the sun declined where lay she? Had she anchored? No, but still she bore down on us till the wind grew still. Her flag? I had no glass, but for and aft, e-gad! she seemed a wicked-looking craft. Armed?

I expect so. Sent on the lookout. Tis time belike to put it. our helm about?" "'About. What e'er may have us now in chase will make no running fight, for that we're base. We will die at our quarters like true men.' "'Aye, aye, for that tis all the same to Ben.' "'Does Christian know this?' "'Aye, he has piped all hands to quarters, they are furbishing the stands of arms,

and we have got some guns to bear and scaled them. You are wanted.' That's but fair. And if it were not, mine is not the soul to leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. My Nuha. Ah, and must my fate pursue not me alone but one so sweet and true? But whatsoe'er betide, Ah, Nuha, now unman me not. The hour will not allow a tear.

I am thine whatever intervenes." Right, quoth Ben, that will do for the Marines. End of Kanto, too. Canto 3 of the Island This Libravox recording is in the public domain Recording by Elizabeth Clette The Island by Lord Byron Canto the 3rd

The fight was oar The flashing through the gloom which robes the cannon As he wings a tomb had ceased And sulphury vapours upward driven Had left the earth and but polluted heaven The rattling roar which hung in every volley had left the echoes to their melancholy. No more they shrieked their horror, boom for boom. The strife was done, the vanquished had their doom. The mutineers were crushed, dispersed,

or tain, or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. Few, few escaped, and these were hunted or the aisle they loved beyond their native shore. No further home was theirs, it seemed, on earth. Once renegades to that which gave them birth, Tracked like wild beasts like them they sought the wild, As to a mother's bosom flies the child. But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, And still more vainly men escape from men. Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes far over ocean

In its fiercest moods, When scaling his enormous crag the wave is hurled down headlong Like the foremost brave, and falls back on the foaming crowd behind which fight beneath the banners of the wind but now at rest a little remnant drew together bleeding thirsty faint and few but still their weapons in their hands and still with something of the pride of former will as men not all unused to meditate and strive much more than wonder at their fate their present lot was what they had foreseen and dared as what was likely to have been yet still the lingering hope which deemed their lot not pardoned but unsought for or forgot or trusted that if sought their distant caves might still be missed amidst the world of of waves, had weaned their thoughts in part from what they saw and felt the vengeance of their country's law.

Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, no more could shield their virtue or their vice. Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown back on themselves. Their sins remained alone. Proscribed even in their second country they were lost. In vain the world before them lay. All outlets seemed secured. Their new allies had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice.

But what availed the club and spear and arm of Hercules, Against the sulphury charm, The magic of the thunder which destroyed the warrior ere his strength could be employed, Dug like a spreading pestilence the grave No less of human bravery than the brave. Their own scant numbers acted all the few Against the many oft will dare and do,

but though the choice seems native to die free even greece can boast but one thermopyla till now when she has forged her broken chain back to a sword and dies and lives again beside the jutting rock the few appeared like the last remnant of the red dears heard their eyes were feverish and their aspect worn but still the hunter's blood was on their horn a little stream came tumbling from the height and still the small stream came tumbling from the height and still the sea Strangling into ocean as it might, its bounding crystal froliced in the ray, and gushed from cliff to crag with saltless spray. Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure and fresh as innocence and more secure, its silver torrent glittered o'er the deep, as the shy shammy's eye or looks the steep, while far below the vast and sullen swell of oceans alpine azure rose and fell. To this young spring they rushed.

All feelings first absorbed in passions and in nature's thirst, drank as they do who drink their last, and threw their arms aside to revel in its dew, cooled their scorched throats, and washed the gory stains from wounds whose only bandage might be chains. Then when their drought was quenched, looked sadly round, as wondering how so many still were found alive and fetterless, but silent all. sought his fellow's eyes as if to call on him for language which his lips denied, as though their voices with their cause had died. Stern and aloof a little from the rest stood Christian, with his arms across his chest.

The ruddy, reckless, and dauntless hue once spread along his cheek was livid now as lead. His light brown locks so graceful in their flow now rose like startled vipers or his brow. as a statue, with his lips compressed to stifle even the breath within his breast. Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute, he stood, and save a slight beat of his foot, which deepened now and then the sandy dint beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to flint. Some paces further Torquil leaned his head against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled. Not mortally. His worst wound was within. His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, and blood-drops sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, showed that his faintness came not from despair, but nature's ebb. Beside

him was another, rough as a bear, but willing as a brother. Ben Bunting, who assayed to wash and wipe and bind his wound, then calmly lit his pipe, a trophy which survived a hundred fights, a beacon which had cheered ten thousand nights. The fourth and last of this deserted group walked up and down. At times would stand, then stooped to pick a pebble up, then let it drop, then hurry as in haste, then quickly stop, then cast his eyes on his companions, then half-wistle half a tune and pause again, and then his former movements would redouble, with something between carelessness and trouble. This is a long description, but applies to the to scarce five minutes passed before the eyes. But yet what minutes?

Moments like to these rend men's lives into immortalities. At length Jack's skyscrape, a mercurial man, who fluttered over all things like a fan, more brave than firm, and more disposed to dare and die at once than wrestle with despair, exclaimed—' "'God damn!' Those syllables intense—nucleus of England's native eloquence, as the Turks, all or the Romans more pagan, pro-Jupiter, was wont of yore to give their first impression such event by way of echo to embarrassment. Jack was embarrassed, never hear o more, and as he knew not what to say, he swore. Nor swore in vain, the long congenial sound revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound.

He drew it from his mouth and looked full wise, but merely added to the oath his eyes. Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, a peroration I need not repeat. But Christian, of a higher order, stood like an extinct volcano in his mood, silent and sad and savage, with the trace of passion reeking from his clouded face, till lifting up again his sombre eye it glanced on Torquil, who leaned faintly by. And is it thus, he cried, unhappy boy, and thee too, thee my man! madness must destroy." He said and strode to where young Torquil stood, yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood, seized his hand wistfully but did not press, and shrunk as fearful of

his own caress, inquired into his state, and when he heard the wound was slighter than he deemed or feared a moment's brightness passed along his brow, as much as such a moment would allow. "'Yes,' he exclaimed, "'we are taken in the toil, but not a coward or a common spoil. Deerly they have bought us. Deerly still may buy. And yet I must fall.

But have you strength to fly. T'would be some comfort still could you survive. Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. Oh, for a soul canoe! Though but a shell to bear you hence to where a hope may dwell. For me my lot is what I sought. To be in life or death the fearless and the free. Even as he spoke, around the promontory, which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary,

a dark speck dotted ocean. On it flew like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew. Onward it came, and lo a second followed, now seen, now hid, where ocean's veil was hollowed, and nearer, till the dusky crew presented well-known aspects to the view, till on the surf their skimming paddles play, buoyant as wings and flitting through the spray, now perching on the waves high curl, and now dashed downward in the thundering foam below, which flings it broad and boiling sheet on sheet, and slings its high flakes shivered into sleet. But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh the barks like small birds

through a lowering sky. Their art seemed nature. the skill to sweep the wave of these born playmates of the deep. And who, the first, that springing on the strand, leaped like a nearer from her shell to land, with dark but brilliant skin and dewy eye shining with love and hope and constancy? Newha! The fond, the faithful, the adored, her heart on torquels like a torrent poured, and smiled and wept, and nearer clasped, as if to be assured twas him she grasped, shuddered

to see his yet warm wound, and then to find it trivial, smiled and wept again. She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear such sights and feel and mourn but not despair. Her lover lived, nor foes nor fears could blight that full-blown moment in all its delight. Joy trickled in her tears, joy filled the sob that rocked her heart till almost heard to throb, and Paradise was breathing in the sigh of Nature's child in nature's ecstasy. The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting were not unmoved. Who are, when hearts are greeting? Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy with tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy mixed

with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays in hopeless visions of our better days, when all's gone, to the rainbow's latest ray. And but for me, he said, and turned away. Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den a lion looks upon his cubs again. again, and then relapsed into his sullen guise, as heedless of his further destinies. But briefed their time for good or evil thought. The billows round the promontory brought the plash of hostile oars. Alas! Who made that sound a dread? All around them seemed to raid against them, save the bride of Tubene. She, as she caught the first glimpse or the

bay of the armed boats which hurried to complete the remnants ruin with their flying feet, beckoned the natives round her to their prows, embarked their guests and launched their light canoes. In one placed Christian and his comrades twain, but she and Torquil must not part again, she vixed him in her own. Away! Away! They cleared the breakers, dart along the bay, and towards a group of islets such as bear the sea-bird's nest and seals surf-hollowed lair, they skim the blue tops of the billows. Fast they flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chase.

They gain upon them. Now they lose again. Again make way and menace or the main. And now the two canoes in chase divide and follow different courses or the tide to baffle the pursuit. Away! Away! As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, and more than life or lives to Nuha. Love freights the fraughts the frail bark and urges to the cove, and now the refuge and the foe are nigh. Yet, yet a moment, fly thou love. light arc, fly. End of Canto 3. Canto 4 of the Island. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Clett. The Island. By Lord Byron. Canto the 4th. White is a white sail on a dusky sea, when half the horizons clouded and half free, fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, is Hope's last glist. in man's extremity. Her anchor parts, but still her snowy sail attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale. Though every wave she climbs divides us more, the heart still follows from

the loneliest shore. Not distant from the isle of Tubinay, a black rock rears its bosom or the spray. The haunt of birds a desert to mankind, where the rough seal reposes from the wind, and sleeps unwieldy in his cavern done, or gambols with huge frolic in the sun. There shrilly to the passing oar is heard the startled echo of the ocean bird, who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, the feathered fissures of the solitude. A narrow segment of the yellow sand on one side forms the outline of a strand. Here the young turtle crawling from his shell steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell. chipped by the beam a nursling of the day but hatched for ocean by the fostering ray the rest was one bleak precipice as ere gave mariners a shelter and despair a spot to make the saved regret the deck which late went down and envy the lost wreck

such was the stern asylum nuja chose to shield her lover from his following foes but all its secret was not told she knew in this a treasure hidden from the view ere the canoes divided near the spot the men that manned what held her torquil's lot by her command removed to strengthen more the skiff which wafted christian from the shore this he would have opposed but with a smile she pointed calmly to the craggy isle and bade him speed and prosper she would take the rest upon herself for torquil's sake they parted with this added aid afar the proa darted like a shooting star and gained on the pursuers who now steered right on the rock which she and torquil neared they pulled her arm though delicate was free and firm as ever grappled with the sea and yielded skin scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. The prow now almost lay within its length of the crag's steep inexorable face, with naught but soundless waters for its base. Within a hundred boat's length was the foe, and now what refuge their frail canoe. This torquil asked with half-upbraiding eye, which said, Has Nuha brought me here to die? Is this a place of safety

or grave, and yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave. They rested on their paddles, and up rose Nuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, cried, Tork will follow me, and fearless follow. They plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. There was no time to pause. The foes were near, chains in his eye and menace in his ear, with vigor they pulled on, and as they came, hailed him to yield and by his forfeit name. Headlong he leapt. To him the swimmer's skill was native, and now all his hope from ill. But how, or where? He dived and rose no more. The boat's crew looked amazed or sea and shore. There was no landing on that precipice, steep, harsh, and slippery as a burg of ice. They watched a while to see him float again, but not

a trace rebubbled from the main. The wave rolled on. no ripple on its face, since their first plunge recalled a single trace. The little whirl which eddied and slight foam that whitened or what seemed their latest home, white as a sepulcher above the pair who left no marble, mournful as an air. The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide was all that told of Torquil and his bride, and but for this alone the whole might seem the vanished phantom of a seaman's dream. They paused and searched in vain. then pulled away. Even superstition now forbade their stay. Some said he had not plunged into the wave,

but vanished like a corpse-light from a grave. Others, that something supernatural glared in his figure more than mortal tall, while all agreed that in his cheek and eye there was a dead hue of eternity. Still, as their oars receded from the crag, round every weed a moment would they lag, expectant of some token of their prey. but no he had melted from them like the spray and where was he the pilgrim of the deep following the nereid had they ceased to weep for ever or received in coral caves wrung life and pity from the softening waves did they with oceans hidden sovereigns dwell and sound with mermen the fantastic shell did newha with the mermaids comb her hair flowing o'er ocean as it streamed in air or had they perished and in silence slept beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt young newha plunged into the deep and he followed her track beneath her native sea was as a natives of the element so smoothly bravely brilliantly she went leaving a streak of light behind her heel, which struck and flashed like an amphibious steel.

Closely and scarcely less expert to trace the depths where divers hold the pearl and chase, Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas, pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. Deep. Deeper for an instant Nuha led the way. Then upward soared, and as she spread her arms and flung the foam from off her locks, laughed, and the sound was answered. by the rocks. They had gained a central realm of earth again, but looked for tree and field and sky in vain. Around she pointed to a spacious cave, whose only portal was the keeless wave, a hollow archway by the sun unseen, save through the billows' glassy veil of green, in some transparent ocean holiday when all the finny people are at play.

Wipeed with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, and clapped her hands with joy of at his surprise, led him to where the rock appeared to jut, and form a something like a Triton's hut. For all was darkness for a space, till day, through clefts above it, let in a sobered ray. As in some old cathedral's glimmering isle, the dusty monuments from light recoil, thus sadly in their refuge submarine the vault drew half her shadow from the scene. Forth from her bosom the young savage drew a pine-torch, strongly girded with national too. A plantain-leaf for all, the more to keep its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. This mantle kept it dry. Then from a nook of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took,

a few shrunk withered twigs, and from the blade of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus arrayed the grot with torch-light. Wide it was, and high, and showed a self-born Gothic canopy. The arch upreared by nature's architect, the arch-trave some earth's earthquake might erect. The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurled when the poles crashed and water was the world, or hardened from some earth-absorbing fire, while yet the globe reeked from its funeral pyre. The fretted pinnacle, the isle, the knave, were there all scooped by darkness from her cave. There with a little tinge of fantasy, fantastic faces moped and mowed on high, and then a mitre or a shrine would fix the eye upon its sea-reeped.

crucifix. Thus nature played with the stalactites, and built herself a chapel of the seas. And Nuha took her torquil by the hand, and waved along the vault her kindled brand, and led him into each recess, and showed the secret places of their new abode. Nor these alone, for all had been prepared before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared. The mat for rest, for dress the fresh natu, and sandal-oil-oer-oed-oed-oed-oed. OILT offense against the dew. For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread born of the fruit, Forbored the plantain spread with its broad leaf, Or turtle-shell which bore a banquet in the flesh it covered oar. The gourd with water recent from the rill, the ripe banana from the mellow

hill, a pine-torch piled to keep undying light, and she herself, as beautiful as night, To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, And make their subterranean world serene. She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail drew to their aisle, that force or flight might fail, and formed a refuge of the rocky den for Torquil's safety from his countrymen. Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, laden with all the golden fruits that grew. Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour, with all could cheer or deck their spari-bower. And now she spread her little store with smiles, the happiest daughter, and she was to her happiest daughter of the loving isles. She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, pressed her

sheltered love to her impassioned breast, and suited to her soft caresses told an olden tale of love, for love is old, old as eternity, but not outworn with each new being born or to be born. How a young chief a thousand moons ago, diving for turtle in the depths below, had risen in tracking fast his ocean prey into the cave which round and o'er them lay. How in some desperate feud of after-time he sheltered there a daughter of the climb, a foe beloved and offspring of a foe, saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe. How when the storm of war was stilled he led his island clan to where the waters spread their deep green shadow or the rocky door, then dived, it seemed as if to rise no more. His world. His world was a little bit of his island clan to where,

wondering mates amazed within their bark, or deemed him mad or prey to the blue shark, rode round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, then paused upon their paddles from the shock. When fresh and springing from the deep they saw a goddess rise, so deemed they in their awe, and their companion glorious by her side, proud and exulting in this mermaid bride. And how, when undeceived the pair they bore with sounding conches and joyous shouts to shore, how they had gladly lived and calmly died, and why not also Torkwell and his bride? Not mine to tell the rapturous caress which followed wildly in that wild recess this tale, enough that all within that cave was love, though buried strong as in the grave, where

Abelard through twenty years of death when Eloise's form was lowered beneath their nuptial vault, his arms outstretched and pressed the kindling ashes to his kindled breast. The waves without sang round their couch, their roar as much unheeded as if life were oar. Within their hearts made all their harmony, Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. And they, the cause and sharers of the shock which left them exiles of the hollow rock, where were they? Or the sea for life they plied, to seek for From heaven the shelter men denied.

Another course had been their choice, but where? The wave which bore them still their foes would bear, who disappointed of their former chase, in search of Christian now renewed their race. Eager with anger their strong arms made way, like vultures baffled of their previous prey, they gained upon them, all whose safety lay in some bleak crag or deeply hidden bay. No further chance or choice remained, and right for the first further rocked. which met their sight they steered to take their latest view of land, and yield as victims, or die soared in hand.

Dismissed the natives and their shallop, who would still have battled for that scanty crew, but Christian bade them seek their shore again, nor add a sacrifice which were in vain. For what were simple bow and savage spear against the arms which must be wielded here? They landed on a wild but narrow scene, where few but nature's footsteps yet had been, prepared They, bared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, stern and sustained of man's extremity, when hope is gone, nor glory's self remains to cheer resistance against death or chains. They stood, as the three, as the three hundred stood who died Thermopylae with holy blood. But ah, how different!

Tis the cause makes all, degrades or hallows courage in its fall. Or them no fame, eternal and intense, blazed through the clouds of death and beckoned hence. No grateful country, smiling through her tears, begun the praises of a thousand years. No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent. No heroes envy them their monument. However boldly their warm blood was spilt, their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. And this they knew and felt. At least the one, the leader of the band he had undone.

Who, born perchance for better things, had set his life upon a cast which lingered yet? But now the die was to be thrown, and all the chances were in favour of his fall. And such a fall! But still he faced the shock, obdurate as a portion of the rock whereon he stood, and fixed his levelled gun, dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. The boat drew nigh, well armed, and firm the crew to act whatever duty bade them do. Careless of danger as the onward wind is of the leaves it strews nor looks behind. And yet perhaps they rather wished to go against a nations than a native foe, and felt

that this poor victim of self-will, Britain no more, had once been Britain still. They hailed him to surrender, no reply. Their arms were poised and glittered in the sky. They hailed again, no answer. Yet once more they offered quarter louder than before. The echoes only from the rocks rebound took their last. farewell of the dying sound. Then flashed the flint and blazed the volleying flame, and the smoke rose between them and their aim, while the rock rattled with the bullet's knell, which peeled

in vain and flattened as they fell. Then flew the only answer to be given by those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. After the first fierce peal as they pulled nire, they heard the voice of Christian shout, Now fire! And ere the word of the world, word upon the echo died, two fell. The rest assailed the rocks rough side, and furious at the madness of their foes, disdained all further efforts, save to close. But steep the crag, and all without a path, each step opposed a bastion to their wrath, while placed midst clefts the least accessible, which Christian's eye was trained to mark full well, the three maintained a strife which must not yield, in spots where eagles might have chosen to build. Their every shot

told, while the assailant fell, dashed on the shingles like the limpid shell. But still enough survived and mounted still, scattering their numbers here and there, until surrounded and commanded, though not nigh enough for seizure, near enough to die. The desperate trio held aloof their fate, but by a thread like sharks who have gorged the bait. Yet to the very last they battled well, and not a groan informed their foes who fell. Christian died last, twice wounded, and once more mercy was offered when they saw his gore. Too late for life, but not too late to die, with, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. A limb was broken, and he drooped along the crag as doth a falcon reft of young.

The sound revived him, or appeared to wake some passion which a weakly gesture spank. He beckoned to the foremost, who drew nigh, but as they neared he reared his weapon high, his last ball had been aimed, but from his breast he tore the topmost button from his vest, down the tube, dashed it, levelled, fired, and smiled as his foe fell. Then, like a serpent, coiled his wounded, weary form to where the steep looked desperate as himself along the deep, cast one glance back, and clenched his hand, and shook his last rage against the earth which he forsook. Then plunged. The rock below received like glass his body crushed into one gory mass, with scarce a shred to tell of human

form, or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm. A fair-haired scalp, besmeared with blood and weeds, yet reeked the remnant of himself and deeds. Some splinters of his weapons—to the last as long as hand could hold he held them fast, yet glittered, but at distance hurled away to rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. The rest was nothing. Save a life misspent, and soul, but who shall answer where it went? Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead, and they who doomed to hell themselves are on the way, unless these bullies of eternal pains are pardoned their bad hearts for their worse brains. The deed was over. All were gone or tain, The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. Chained on the deck where once a gallant crew they

stood with honour, with a wretched few survivors of the skirmish on the aisle. But the last rock left no surviving spoil. Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, while o'er them flapped the sea-birds'-dewy wing, now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge, and screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge. But calm and careless heaved the wave below, eternal with unsympathetic flow. Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on, and sprung the flying fish against the sun, till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, to gather moisture for another flight. T'was morn, and Nuha, who by dawn of day swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, and watch if ought approached the amphibious lair where lay her lover, saw a sail in air.

It flapped, it filled, and to the growing gale bent its broad arch. Her breath began to fail with fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, while yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie. But no, it came not. Fast and far away the shadow lessened as it cleared the bay. She gazed and flung the sea-foam from her eyes. to watch as for a rainbow in the skies. On the horizon verged the distant deck, diminished, dwindled to a very speck, then vanished. All was ocean, all was joy. Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy, told all she had seen and all she hoped, and all that

happy love could augur or recall. Sprung forth again with Torquil following free his bounding near it or the broad sea, swam round the rock to where a shallow cleft hid the canoe that Nuha there had left, drifting along the tide, without an oar. That eve the strangers chased them from the shore. But when these vanished, she pursued her prow, regained and urged to where they found it now. Nor ever did more love and joy embark than now were wafted in that slender arc. Again their own shore rises on the view. No more polluted with a hostile hue. No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, a floating dungeon.

All was hope and home. A thousand proas darting o'er the bay, with sounding shells and heralded their way. The chiefs came down, around the people poured, and welcomed Torquil as a son restored. The women thronged, embracing and embraced by Nuha, asking where they had been chased and how escaped. The tale was told, and then one acclamation rent the sky again, and from that hour a new tradition gave their sanctuary the name of Nuhaz Cave. A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, blazed o'er the general revel of the night. The feast in honor of the guest, returned to peace and pleasure, perilously earned. A night succeeded by such happy days as only the yet infant

world displays. End of Canto the Fourth. End of the Island by Lord Byron.